


3 AM

by kriegersan



Category: Archer (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Pregnancy, Schmoop, Sexual Tension, cuteness, help i can't handle this season, there is too much cute for me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-10 18:38:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 37,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kriegersan/pseuds/kriegersan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place during S5. Lana, pregnant and bitchy, attempts to sort through her feelings involving a certain someone. The rest of ISIS attempts (keyword: attempts) to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place directly after S05E03. Lana goes searching... for something.

Cheryl’s mansion was fucking creepy at 3 AM. That was Lana’s excuse and she was sticking with it, using her cell phone as a light as she tiptoed down the main hallway, looking for one of the many kitchens in the Grey Gardens-esque monolith of malignant white supremacy. It wasn’t like she was lonely or anything, wasn’t looking for someone awake or anything, didn’t want anyone to talk to, but she’d read through every magazine in the house at this point - she needed some other kind of stimulation.

“Fuck,” she muttered, stubbing her toe as she rounded a corner into one of the living rooms. The side table she hit probably cost more than her annual paycheque. Fucking bougie Cheryl and her flying buttresses or whatever. “Jesus, shit, ow, how many pieces of excessive, pointless furniture can one rich, stupid person possibly own?” 

“That’s mahogany, Lana. You can own a lot of exquisite mahogany furniture, and it’s never excessive or pointless. Although the rich and stupid thing remains open for debate.” 

Of course. Lana’s eyes had already begun to roll before he could even follow up.

“But, you wouldn’t know that or anything being that you have no taste.” Archer, as it would have to be (it would always, _always_ , have to be him), was in the living room, bare foot crossed over his silk covered knee and a book in his hands. He was seated on a divan that Lana probably would never buy herself (it was tacky as fuck, and also grossly over-priced), in front of a roaring fire, reading glasses perched low on his nose. There was (of course) a generously poured glass of scotch on the table next to him, and a few dainty little pills (probably Pam’s, probably sedatives) that looked small in comparison. 

“I’ll just be leaving then, have fun with your Dr. Seuss,” she said, already turning to move into another room. He flipped the book shut (hard cover, Dostoyevsky), and raised an eyebrow at her, turning around on the divan to get a good look. He wasn’t even trying to pretend that he wasn’t staring at her decidedly larger bustline, to let his eyes skim lower over her growing belly, down the swell of her thighs.

“Can’t sleep?”

“Nope. Which is why I’m leaving this conversation preemptively, as if I stay, I will inevitably end up laying awake for the next few weeks in the consuming rage I feel towards your general personhood, replaying everything you say in my head.”

He snorted, reaching for his drink. “Sure. Or you could can the shitty attitude, Lana, and sit down, because I can tell you’re just going to sit alone and fume for the next few hours if you don’t. And then the fuming will give way to an existential crisis and ensuing emotional breakdown, and we both know that you really hate crying.” 

Lana’s eyes narrowed. She stood at the entrance, hand lingering on the engraved frame of the doorway. The fire crackled temptingly before her, and Archer turned around with his nose back into his book, pretending to read while he waited for her to take action. It was late, and Lana could hear the house creak around her, the rain outside. Okay, it was kind of cold.

“Fine,” she muttered, pulling up her dressing gown around her shoulders as she walked into the room. The plush carpet felt soft under her bare feet, expensive and luxurious. Lana felt cheap sitting next to him, her already shaky morals rescinding even further. It wasn’t like she hadn’t been alone with Archer, she wasn’t afraid of it, they worked together after all, but alone on a job was different than alone at 3 AM on a velvet divan with an elaborate, brickwork fireplace in front of them. It was like something out of a Burt Reynolds movie. 

She kept her distance, scowling into the fire. He, of course, noticed immediately and peered at her over his book. “I’m not going to bite you, Lana, Jesus. Will you relax already? Want an Ativan?”

“Nah, I’m not feeling that right now, but if you’ve got some methamphetamine, I would love to shoot up and get my tweak on,” she snarked, crossing her arms under her breasts. “I’m sure it will be highly beneficial to my unborn child. I’ll write an editorial on it for _Mothers’ Weekly_.” 

Archer laughed at her, that higher boyish laugh, pure and amused, the kind that she couldn’t help but twitch a smile at. Damnit. 

Damnit, damnit, damnit.

He lifted his legs up onto the divan, turning in the seat with his back against the arm, sliding his feet down to poke and pinch at her outer thighs with his toes. “You are the single most irritating person alive. Possibly even including deceased people. Even the ones who were specifically killed for irritating people, you are more irritating than even those people.”

“That’s a gross overstatement. You don’t know every single person alive, now do you, Lana?” He poked her again. She tightened her mouth and didn’t respond. “Did you build a time travel device to go back to meet the now-deceased annoying people? Did you dig them all up and query their skeletons? Did their revolting, fleshy corpses annoy you too? On the sliding scale of irritation where would you put a corpse? Were the living people more or less annoying than the dead ones? I’m asking you a question, Lana. A series of questions, actually, so I’d highly appreciate some feedback here so that I can reach an educated conclusion.” 

She inhaled slowly, trying to keep her calm. She was easily agitated by him at the best of times - sleep deprived, angry and pregnant was not one of those times. Sure, she knew she could get up and leave at any time, but she’d already more or less shown herself that she was almost incapable of doing it when it came to these people. This people. This person. This infuriating, annoying, terrible person who said he loved her and saved her life, risking his own (dubious) mortality in the process. Shit.

Lana exhaled, eyes closed, feeling his toes wiggle their way under the warmth of her thigh. He was obviously planning on keeping them there. She opened her eyes, and turned her gaze on him. His cheeks were flushed pink with the booze, glasses pushed up higher now, the thick frames outlining the watery blue of his eyes. He looked tired, a bit of stubble on his jaw, but a playful smile was pulling at his lips. Definitely a little drunk, maybe a little stoned, but that was nothing out of the ordinary for him. 

“Wanna talk about it?” he said, that sarcastic lilt to his voice as usual. Everything with him was just under the surface - there was a little bit of concern there, but he’d (almost) never put himself in a position where he had to admit that he cared about someone else. That just wasn’t Archer. Sure, there was a teensy, tiny part of Lana that craved desperately for his affection, but she wouldn’t put herself through that with him again. Couldn’t. Can’t.

She sighed. “It’s fine, Archer. I’m just having a hard time sleeping. It’s just… weird in here. Weird and… slave owner-y.” 

The silence trailed on for a little while, Archer watching her behind the lenses, as she slowly leaned out of his touch. His feet were cold under the fabric of her dressing gown. He wiggled his toes a little bit more, pulling the fabric up, his baby toe touching against the bare (and kind of hairy, she wasn’t going to lie) flesh of her outer thigh. 

He waited for a minute, gaging what kind of reaction he was going to get out of that touch. Lana didn’t respond, turned her head away from him, eyes glazed and gazing distantly at a bookshelf, the spines dusty and untouched for a number of years. She felt the divan move under her, as Archer slid closer, his shoulder bumping up against hers. His palm slid over her knee, and then rescinded suddenly, moving safely back into his lap, ice clinking in the glass of his drink in the opposite hand draped over the back of the settee.

“That’s not all of it, is it.” 

“Why are you sitting so close?” she muttered, exasperated. There wasn’t much resolve in her voice. She didn’t look at him, either. “I’m just tired. Really tired. I’ve been dealing with coked-up Pam and all kinds of illegal activities and gun fights and drug deals and house invasions and all sorts of shit that pregnant women _seriously_ shouldn’t be involved in.”

He didn’t move.

“Seriously, Archer, back off.” 

“Lana, can I feel your belly?” 

Her head whirled around so fast to look at him that her hair audibly slapped against his face. He shrunk back a little bit, okay, drunker than she’d thought. Lana scrutinized him for a moment, inches between their mouths, his dry and slightly open, hers taut and judgmental. Okay, maybe not that drunk, then. Just curious.

He looked away for a moment, before returning his liquid gaze back to her face, then down to her stomach. “I just… want to touch it. For some reason. Can I?” 

The crinkles around the corners of his eyes, the strain in the way he leaned into her, betrayed more than anything he could say. Archer always spoke in actions, but an outright request for connection… was new. 

Lana stayed rigid for a moment. Beat. And then she softened. “...Oookay,” she muttered quietly, her face heating as she undid the ties to her dressing gown. The light tank-top she wore underneath didn’t obscure much, her nipples poking through as she ran her palm down the seam, opening the gown enough that her growing belly emerged. With indelicate movements, she pushed up her tank top enough to bare it, the dark line down the center more pronounced in the fire light. She was happy that her belly button hadn’t started to stick out like an alien fruit basketball-thing, yet, at least. 

Archer stared at her belly for a moment, as if he didn’t comprehend what he was seeing. It was the first time he’d seen her in a state of undress in ages, first time he’d seen her in anything other than a stretchy mini-dress since she’d conceived. She’d had months to reluctantly grow used to the changes in her body, the heaviness of her breasts and growing curve of her stomach. 

When he didn’t make a move, instead gaping at her (very, very minimal) stretch marks, Lana reached for his empty hand and placed it simply on the side of her belly, his palm immediately curving around to encompass her. “His head is usually over here, I think,” she said, her cheeks burning for a reason she couldn’t name. “He’s not that big yet, but I can usually feel him move. He likes to roll around a lot at this time. Usually onto my bladder. You probably won’t be able to feel it or anything. I mean… I’m babbling, I’ll shut up now.”

She pulled her hands away from his like he was hot, awkwardly moving them until she found a place to rest them on her lap. One of her pinkies couldn’t help but brush against his thigh, but she stared into the fire and decidedly ignored that. She had to ignore it. 

Archer’s face scrunched up a bit, and then softened, as he pushed the pads of his fingers lightly into her skin, moving his hands around her belly. She could feel where there was more resistance, where baby’s back was, could feel his hand brushing through the little bit of curly hair that had crawled up the underside of her belly. At first she’d panicked and tried to shave it, but as the underside of her stomach became less visible to her, (it wasn’t like anyone was seeing her naked anyway) she’d gotten lazy and let it grow. She was suddenly embarrassed, hyper-aware of his lingering touch. She reached for the hem of her gown to pull it closed.

“No, don’t, please, I…” He sounded like a little boy asking for his mother. 

Archer cleared his throat and looked back up at her, obviously trying to steel himself and slip back behind his usual mask of vitriol. “I just want to touch for a little bit longer… if that’s okay, of course. I mean, I don’t want to intrude on your lack of sleeping, mirth and pregnant rage. Because I know you were really busy being--”

“It’s fine. It’s… fine, Archer.” Lana settled back into the divan, letting her head lean back a little as his hands started to lift away. “It feels kind of... nice, actually.” She released her gown again, closing her eyes. Just… enjoying it, for once. 

Nobody had touched her in ages, to be honest. Not in that way, at the very least. His fingers rounded out against her stomach again, and he set his glass on the floor with the other, only to bring that one to her as well, a little cold and clammy. He turned to face her further, his left hand sliding up to the top, the back of his hand nudging the underside of her breasts. Lana let out a sigh, she could feel her nipples hardening in response, and oh god, she hated how easy it was for him to get to her. Hated it. 

Lana opened her eyes again, and found herself not on the divan. Far away from the divan. It was dim, and warm, and bed shaped. Light peered in through the curtains. There was a brief moment of panic, her hand flying to her stomach, and okay… she was just in bed. Everything was fine. Archer had probably just…

Archer.

Her eyes squeezed shut, holding back the well of emotion threatening to spill over. Stupid pregnant hormones. Stupid Archer. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She turned over, finding her cell phone plugged in and charging on the night stand. He must’ve... 

Lana reached over for it, flipping it open to find that it was already 10AM. She’d slept a few hours then, at least. 

She checked her text messages. Just one, from a contact under the name “Giant Fucking Jerk ASSHOLE.” 

_Thanks_. All it said was _thanks_.

Lana sighed, and slid it shut, tossing it over to the side of her bed. She closed her eyes and fell back into a mostly blissful sleep.

(For at least a few hours, until Pam’s coke fueled shrieking and Malory’s shrill response woke her up.)

(But at least it counted for something.)


	2. Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discussions. A prelude to something. Cunts. Takes place after S05E04.

When they said ‘possibility of first-trimester morning sickness’ in the baby books, Lana didn’t realize they meant ‘midnight to at least 8 AM puking your guts while clinging to the porcelain god-have-mercy-can-I-keep-fluids-in-my-body-please for upwards of 4 months’. There had been no sickness in the first couple months, just lately it’d been almost every night, draped over the toilet clinging for dear life. 

She sat back onto her calves, wiping the spittal off of her lip. It was more or less just dry-heaving now, since she’d had trouble eating all day - not much to puke up, but she did feel slightly more awful without anything coming up. The glass of water next to her was empty, and she didn’t quite have faith in herself to try to stand to refill it. Moreover, it felt just a little on the side of pathetic to try and do it on her knees.

Lana let out a frustrated sigh, dropping her forehead to rest on the toilet seat, before cringing at the smell and lifting herself back up. She flushed the toilet and exhaled; her head was throbbing, and baby was doing cartwheels inside of her, likely delighted at all the night time activity. She leaned back against the rim of the bath tub behind her, wrapping her arms around herself. Sometimes she just wanted to cut the little fucker out already - her hand quickly dropped to her belly, guilty for even daring to think that thought.

It’d just been a weird couple of days. Between that FBI guy, Cheryl and Pam being… well, Cheryl and Pam, and Archer rattling off the fears he had, holding her… and that weird thing with the stomach touching before that… it was just confusing. It was all confusing, and exactly what Lana didn’t need right now. Feelings… about her immature ex-boyfriend while trying to be part of some kind of make-shift drug cartel, while roughly the size of an unsexy hot air balloon - yeah, those extra feelings were unneeded. She closed her eyes to stave off the feelings (or possibly the nausea), swallowing thickly as she felt the bile rising back in her throat. Okay, head back in the toilet again, as her stomach roiled. Fucking hell.

She spat into the water, closing her eyes, her head pounding. When would this end? Solace didn’t come, but there was a knock at the door, and a quiet, “Miss Kane?” 

Woodhouse? How the hell… She was in the ensuite bathroom connected to her room, it wasn’t like anyone could hear her from the hallway. Lana lifted her head only for a moment, mumbling a, “Come in,” before her brain could get the better of her to send him away so he couldn’t see her in her weakened state. 

In toddled old, little Woodhouse with a serving tray, a tall glass balanced precariously on top. He set the tray down on the sink counter, closing the door gently behind him. She groaned, head in her hands, feeling a little embarrassed that her ex-boyfriend’s butler had to see her like this. It was only Woodhouse, but still - she didn’t like looking weak.

“Forgive me, Miss Kane… I don’t mean to intrude, but I have something that might be just the trick to settle that rough-and-tumble stomach of yours,” said Woodhouse, the words whistling through him like wind through a dead tree. 

He picked up the serving tray again (not the glass, that would be un-servant...ly) and proffered it to her, kneeling a bit to get to her level. “It’s a simple mixture of baking soda and flat tonic water, Miss. It’ll help with the acid taste and to settle your stomach. Might taste a bit gritty, so downing it one go might be your best bet.”

Lana cringed but took the glass, eyeing the concoction as if it would bite her. She murmured a word of thanks, before tipping the glass to her lips. As soon as the taste hit her mouth, her hand immediately flew up to pinch her nose, and she chugged the rest of it with as much gusto as she could manage. It did taste disgusting, but it soothed the acidic feeling in her throat as soon as it went down.

She set the glass back down and burped under her breath, feeling moderately better, but also like the mixture might come right back up. Woodhouse bent over to pick up the glass, setting it back onto the tray. “It may take a few minutes, Miss, but hopefully it’ll help.” 

“So I’m just going to assume that you’ve been gleefully listening to me vomit out every last organ I have in my body with your ear to the door, which is why you brought me this? You couldn’t bring a gun and just put me out of my misery already?” Lana replied, unable to hold back any of the bitterness she was feeling. She knew that she had a tendency to project her anger and… well, it was just Woodhouse. 

The butler flicked his beady little eyes around for a moment, before nodding his affirmation. “I’ve been around a lady with-child or two in my time, Miss. I’ve noticed you pacing the halls around this time of night, so I occasionally pass by to check on you. Wouldn’t want any complications.” 

Lana closed her mouth, her eyes feeling itchy and watery for a moment. Stupid feelings. It was just fucking Woodhouse. She sniffled and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, bringing her knees as close to her chest as her growing abdomen allowed. 

As much as Lana reassured herself, and knew that she could (mostly) handle this alone, sometimes it really sucked not to have someone to hold her hair, or tell her that she still looked halfway-fuckable or rub her back or do any of those nice, caring things that the tiny, vulnerable part of her craved. She kept that part locked down and jacked up with C4 and barbed wire, for the most part, but the hormones made it slip through the cracks when she least expected it. Now was one of those times, she recognized, as Woodhouse knelt down next to her, passing her a tissue. She dabbed under her eyes, realizing finally that the tears had started to escape.

“I’m just not sure I can do this,” she admitted, in a very small, sad voice. It was a feeling she’d had since the start, something small and fearful that had eventually grown too big to ignore. She felt it full and paralyzing in her chest, had been feeling it stronger since that day with the FBI. “How am I supposed to bring a baby into this mess? Before… at least I had a job I was going to every morning, I had routine, I had security, and now… I just don’t know. All I have is a literal mountain of cocaine.” She paused, swallowing and trying to get a hold of herself. “I feel so... fucking... lost…” 

Woodhouse sat down next to her, serving tray laying haphazardly to the side. He didn’t look all that comfortable, steepling his fingers on his knees, this tiny ancient man with his creaky bones and heroin shake, deep in thought. “Forgive me if I overstep my boundaries, Miss Kane, but I believe every new parent, regardless of their situation, feels this way at one point or another. Probably without the literal mountain of cocaine, but I digress.” 

He reached out shakily, the tips of his spidery fingers landing on her shoulder. “For what it’s worth, Miss Kane, even though you may not have the job or the routine, the people here… well, most of them, they care very deeply as to what becomes of you and your child, whether or not they’ll admit it.”

Lana’s eyes creased, and she put her face into her hands. She couldn’t help the tears, but held herself back from outright sobbing at the very least. Woodhouse patted her back, uttered words of comfort, and as strange as it was, it did make her feel a little better. The nausea had more or less abated, as well, and Lana let herself sit there and feel pathetic as the moments trailed on.

Eventually, Woodhouse moved to stand up, and Lana extended a hand to assist the man’s precarious rise to his feet. He took his serving tray and both empty glasses, bowing his head slightly as he made his way out. Woodhouse, at the very least, knew when to gracefully exit a situation. Lana closed the door behind him, wiping her leaky nose on the back of her hand. She stood in front of the mirror, taking in her disheveled appearance.

God she looked like hell. Her skin was blotchy and puffy from crying, hair tousled and stiff from tossing and turning. She was distinctly aware of the weight she’d gained in different areas of her body, the way her breasts hung bigger and lower, her clingy nightgown not hiding much. Lana closed her eyes, struggling to pull herself together. She’d never thought pregnancy would be magical or whimsical or had any grand romantic ideas about it, but she never thought she’d feel this shitty about herself. Even before she’d already started to feel older (the running joke about her tits starting to sag never stopped hurting), but now… ugh.

She turned out of the bathroom, flicking the light off on her way, before stumbling over to her bed. Lana crawled under the covers, pulling them tight around her body, only her head and feet sticking out. Lana burrito. 

She lay there, moments stretching into upwards of an hour, until the sun started to peek through the curtains. Fuck it all, she was never going to get any sleep in this state. She checked her phone - 6:30 AM. At the very least she could get up and make herself a strong cup of tea before anyone else took over the kitchen.

Lana did her best to make herself presentable, squeezing into one of her mini-dresses and a pair of comfortable shoes (the high-heeled boots were starting to get too tight for her feet, she grimly decided). Her hair was more or less a crap-shoot, but she at least finger-combed it to sit somewhat flat. Deciding that it was the best that she could do, Lana wandered out into the hollow, empty hallway, intent on being alone for at least a little longer.

The kitchen, thankfully, was quiet and cold, no signs of human life for the time being. Lana breathed a sigh of relief, meandering over to the old-fashioned stove top kettle. She filled it with water, before setting it on the stove. Leaning back against the counter, she let her mind wander. Jesus, was this place stuck in the early 19th century? Actually, yeah, scratch that, it totally was. It had half the conveniences of a modern dwelling (TVs, phones, computers) and some of the relics of the past (racism, tunnels, literal human remains, grandpa… the list went on). It was no wonder Cheryl was so fucked up.

She stood there musing on the upbringing of the secretary-cum-popstar, so lost in the gaps between thoughts and pure exhaustion, that she didn’t notice the kettle screaming at her for a good few minutes, until someone else lifted it off the stove for her. 

“Jeez, Lana, did getting knocked up spontaneously cause your ears to stop working or are you deliberately trying to wake everyone up at this ungodly hour to accompany you in your misery?” 

Lana startled abruptly, slipping back on her heel, Archer snatching out to grasp her arm before she could stumble and fall completely. She righted herself, leaning back into him to get her bearings, before flushing and pushing him away. “I just wasn’t paying attention, dick,” she snarled, whirling around to grab the kettle, busying herself before he could make another smart remark. 

He chuckled, watching her useless attempt to save face. Lana’s cheeks burned, and she didn’t ignore the fact that Archer was still in a robe and pyjamas, his hair pushed up on one side, glasses bearing fingerprints and crooked on his nose. He’d obviously been woken up by the kettle, so she’d had to have let it go for more than a few moments. She felt just a tiny bit bad for that. 

With the kettle on the counter, Lana realized that she had no clue where anything was in this place, other than the coke stash in the lock-up. Woodhouse usually dealt with the cooking for the most part. Turning around, she found Archer presenting her with two ceramic mugs, eyebrow cocked with amusement. “I figured since I was already so rudely awakened, I’d continue to delight you with my dynamic presence.”

“Goodie for me,” she quipped, jerking the mugs out of his hands to slam them down on the counter. Her hands were shaking a bit as she scanned the counter for anything resembling tea or tea shaped things, but she found Archer placing a box next to her, along with a set of spoons, milk, sugar and a bottle of whisky for good measure (predictable).

“Why are you so damn jumpy? Did you take your own advice and start shooting up while I wasn’t paying attention? How’s that editorial coming?” 

Lana deflated a bit at that, setting her palms down on the edge of the counter, staring at the kettle as if she could will it to move by scaring it into action. He grinned, nudging her out of the way with his hip, and set to pouring the water himself, throwing an ample amount of alcohol into his own mug (more or less half the glass, the boozehound). 

“I just didn’t sleep much last night, okay? I’m fucking tired.” He pushed the mug of hot tea into her open hands, apparently to pacify her all-consuming bitchiness that didn’t seem to be rescinding in the current moment. He didn’t really deserve it, but it wasn’t like Archer was unused to being the (sometimes) scapegoat for Lana’s anger.

He chuckled lightly, before taking a noisy slurp of his tea. Must’ve been too hot - he immediately grimaced, sucking his lips into his mouth. Mug immediately went back down on the table. Lana let herself feel slightly pleased by this. “So what did you do all night then? Brainstorm all the various things you could bitch at me about?”

Lana raised the mug to her lips, blowing the steam away to cool her drink off. She looked decidedly away from him, turning to face the window. It was still mostly dark outside, New York brimming with energy under the surface.

“I spent a good amount of time puking my guts out, thanks. That was about it.” She took a sip of her drink, the temperature was still on the warm side, but palatable. Her stomach felt a little better. “Oh and pacing. Sometimes walking around calms him down. The movement, I mean. Him being… the baby.”

“Yeah, I figured that one out.” His hand brushed up against the back of her arm, before he dropped it onto the table, looking a little bit flustered. Lana raised an eyebrow at him - it wasn’t like Archer to hold himself back, but lately he’d been getting this way around her more often. Saying how he felt. Maybe it was progress, maybe it was sleep deprivation. It was hard to tell with him, honestly. 

Archer knocked his knuckles against the table, rearranged a few of the things sitting on top of it. Wandered back to the fridge to put away the milk. 

Lana took another sip of her drink. “You know…” he started, settling his hand down on the table. Less fidgety then. “Instead of being a lame-ass and just moping around by yourself at night, you could always, you know, wake me up? Or just bug me, whatever, I’m usually alive.”

“And give you the satisfaction so that you could gloat all night about how needy I am?” she scoffed, “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Or you could, you know, stop being such a bitter cunt all the time and just accept the fact that I actually want to hang out with you and attempt to be nice to you and keep you company because I know how shitty and ugly and sad and _lonely_ you’re feeling?”

Lana paused at that, the two of them standing there in silence, feeling a little awkward at his accidental word-vomit. It wasn’t like Archer to be so forthright, but it’d seemed lately he’d been trying to overcome his emotionally crippled state. Ever so slowly there’d been changes, no matter how small. Mostly small. Very small. And slightly backhanded and offensive.

Archer stepped back, pushing the back of his fist up against his forehead. “That isn’t what I meant. Ugh. Stupid… stupid...” He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose and picked up his mug. “Just forget it.” 

“No, stay, it’s fine. It’s fine, Archer,” she said. She turned and grabbed the shoulder of his shirt, stopping him from making an ungraceful exit like he so obviously wanted to. “Stay.” His cheeks had gone a little bit pink, clearly embarrassed at not having the upper-hand when it came to feelings in this situation. His tendency to play fast and loose with everyone else’s emotions wasn’t unknown to Lana - underneath the exterior, Archer’s little barbed wire heart was vulnerable and terrified of getting broken again.

“Sorry,” he murmured, “I didn’t mean to call you a cunt.” Lengthy pause. “Not that you aren’t a giant cunt sometimes.” 

“You’re a cunt all the time,” she fired back, “Not even a moist one.”

“A dry cunt?”

“The driest of cunts.”

“You could say that it’s the Nevada desert of a cunt.”

“Sandpaper cunt.”

“I would say closer to rice cake cunt.”

“Those taste awful.”

“You would know. Cunt.”

Despite herself, Lana started giggling, Archer following along before hiding the upturned corners of his mouth behind his boozy drink. She couldn’t help it - as big of an asshole as he was, he still had the ability to make her piss herself laughing, regardless of how offensive his joke was. Maybe that was why she could never get over him.

She exhaled noisily, clinking her mug against his. Surrender. “Okay, you win. If I get bored at 3AM I’ll come wake your ass up. Loudly.”

“Just my ass?” Archer said, a smarmy grin creeping his lips up at the corners. She cuffed him lightly on the shoulder, making her exit towards the kitchen door. “That could be arranged.”

“Don’t push your luck, asshole.”

Okay so maybe it wasn’t just his jokes, or the way he looked. There was a part of Archer, however small it was, that cared more than anyone else ever did. He had no fucking clue how to show it, but neither did she, really. It was something.

It was progress. Kinda.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited for the show to come back tonight! I finished this chapter today to post, not much happens, but hope you enjoy regardless. After the next episode airs, I'll hopefully have a week to pump out another chapter - ideally, I'd like to have one after each episode.
> 
> Regardless, enjoy! Constructive criticism is always desired.


	3. Horns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place directly after S05E05. 2:45AM wake-up call for Lana.

There were dead animal horns above the door of the hotel. Yeah, they were definitely in Texas. Lana’s eyes darted around as she poked her head out of the bus, checking the darkened parking lot for any signs of hostility, but Mallory barrelled past her, leafing through bills in her wallet.

“I thought I was never going to get off that foot-smelling death trap. What I wouldn’t give for a hot shower, a California king bed and a tall glass of gin,” the older woman snarled, her voice raspy and antagonistic. It’d been too long since she’d had a drink, then.

The blocker car roared into the stall next to them, the wheels squealing loudly with Cheryl - sorry, Cherlene - shrieking in delight in the passenger seat. After the success of her first show, she’d insisted on riding shotgun so that her and Pam could go and do celebratory donuts on the highway (Lana cringed as she recalled all the car accidents that had likely happened in their wake). Pam jumped out of the driver side, her mouth a flat line, eyes bugged out and cagey. Oh, right - the coke was gone.

Mallory disappeared behind the heavy doors of the front entrance, likely to sweet talk some elderly gentleman into giving them a discount on rooms. Lana had a fleeting hope that she wouldn’t have to share… yeah fat fucking chance of that happening. She sighed, stepping off the bus before moving over to the undercarriage compartments to start looking for her luggage. She was in serious need of a body pillow - her back had been killing her since the crash.

Archer and Cyril fought their way off the bus after her, squabbling about something or another as they followed Mallory to the hotel entrance. Cherlene zipped along after them, insisting that she was the only one sleeping on the bus (“It has my name on it! My visage! My sensuous womanly figure! If a rapist comes then they’ll know who’s in there! You wouldn’t want to confuse an angry rapist, _would you!?_ ”), and so Lana settled on the idea that she was more or less left to her own devices getting all the luggage. Fucking great.

“Yeah, don’t worry about me… the pregnant lady will lift the heavy baggage, no problem,” she snarked under her breath, reaching for the handle.

She was beaten to it, a hand slapping her palm out of the way. Pam grabbed the handle, yanking it up, and Lana stepped back as the compartment yawned open with a groan. Pam crawled in and haphazardly pushed the luggage out, letting it fall onto the asphalt wherever it happened to land. Lana started to right it, pairing Mallory’s matching sets off to the side. Even if it wasn’t hers, Louis Vuitton didn’t deserve to be laying in the dirt.

Lana watched Pam disappear further into the undercarriage, and after she didn’t come out for five minutes, she leaned over to look inside. “You’re looking for more cocaine, aren’t you?” she said, letting the exasperation slip into her voice. Pam’s head appeared back into her eyeline, and the white of her grit teeth told Lana everything she needed to know. “It’s all gone, Pam. Archer, dumbass, lost it all. Besides… maybe you should slow down for awhile? Just a bit?”

“You’re just jealous because I’m the hot one with huge tits now!” she barked back, crawling out of the compartment in contempt. Lana rolled her eyes, grabbing Pam’s hand to properly drag her out. She kicked and fought, but eventually stood to lean against the bus, defeated.

Lana’s brows creased. “Oookay… leaving myself out of the equation because you being addicted to cocaine has literally _nothing_ to do with me, I’m just trying to help, Pam.”

“I don’t want your help! Shitballs, can’t a girl just casually do a recreational party drug without everyone telling her what to do!?” 

“ _Casually_.”

“Okay, often then.”

Lana stared at Pam. Just stared. For a solid, long, awkward minute. Before Pam, resignedly, put her head in her hands. “Okayyy, so I might have a teensy tiny problem.” She sniffed loudly, rubbing her hand under her nostrils. “...You don’t hate me for it, do you?”

“Annoyed? Yes. Concerned? Double yes. But I don’t hate you for it,” confessed Lana, gently setting her hand on Pam’s shoulder. Shit, she could feel the bones and everything. Pam did look good, she really couldn’t deny that, but was it worth it? Her eyes darted down to Pam’s massive bosom, and yeah, they did look pretty damn good. But so not worth it. Mostly not worth it.

Lana crossed her arms, leaning against the bus next to her associate, trying to analyze exactly what it was that she was feeling. She looked over at Pam, her sunken eyes and coke jitter, and came to a small conclusion. “You’re right. I am a little jealous,” she admitted, turning her gaze away as Pam’s beady eyes shot back at her. She cleared her throat, and continued, “I’ve never not been the ridiculously hot one, you know? I’ve never felt--”

“Fat?” blurted Pam, slapping her hand over her mouth as soon as the word spilled out. Lana glared at her for a moment, before turning her eyes to the ground.

“Yeah, honestly. I feel fat.” 

And honestly… she felt a little better admitting it out loud. It didn’t escape her notice that Pam moved a little closer, draping her arm over Lana’s shoulders. “Chin up, buddy,” said Pam, poking Lana lightly in her pregnant belly, “I don’t hate you for it!”

“Oh fuck off, Pam,” Lana snorted, brushing her off and moving towards the baggage. She couldn’t hide the smile and Pam laughed along after her, hefting up three giant suitcases in each hand before heading toward the entrance. 

Coke-addled or not, Pam at the very least was honest and mostly meant well. It was weird to be on the other side of the coin, the insecure one unhappy with her body, but hell, it did give them some common ground. Lana took her own suitcase in hand and followed, wondering belatedly how the woman was going to get her drug fix. 

Yeah… she really didn’t want to share a room with Pam.

~~~

Sleep. Sweet, blissful, otherwise unoccupied bedroom sleep. That was all Lana had asked for, but the banging on her door at 2:45AM said otherwise. Malory had somehow shown pity on Lana (maybe it was pity, maybe it was blackmail) and allowed her a private, tiny room, forcing Archer and Cyril to share. Malory had also taken her own room, and sent Pam back to the bus with Cherlene as a ‘bodyguard’ for the night. 

Realizing that the banging wasn’t just in her head, Lana groaned, flicking the bedside lamp on and shoving her covers off. She blinked hazily, sliding her feet out from under the covers to let them land on the dingy, carpeted floor. It took her a few minutes to find the door handle, but she turned it and pulled the door open until the chain clicked in the latch, poking her nose through the crack.

Of course it was Archer, shirt halfway open, eyes red and watery. He had a half-empty bottle in one hand, leaning heavily on the doorway, boozey breath making her cringe. She closed the door in his face, and pulled down the chain lock, opening it again to let him in. She stepped out of the way, letting him stumble in past her, and it didn’t really phase her as he collapsed face-down on her bed. They’d done this song and dance too many times before. 

“Sooo…” she started, closing the door gently and sliding the chain lock again. Lana turned to face him, as he squirmed around in the covers until he more or less was face-up. His hair was all ruffled and his pants were half undone. What a damn mess. “I’m going to assume that Cyril kicked you out.”

“Your assumption would be wrong,” he retorted, toeing off his shoes. They landed with a soft thunk, and Lana sighed, more or less resigned to the presence of her newly acquired roommate. He went mostly still after a few moments, face half-covered by a sheet. “I kicked Cyril out of my room. And then I kicked myself out of my room.”

She sat down on the edge of the bed, leaning back on her hands as she watched him struggle with the sheet over his face. He eventually pulled it down, his Bambi blue eyes staring up at her. “I’m not following.”

“Well, Lana, Pam and I had made an agreement earlier today, and so we decided to carry out that agreement in my room for a few long, energetic hours.”

“So you fucked her.”

“She fucked _me_ , honestly, and no, not in _your_ way of fucking me. I think my dick is broken off. Help me find it.” 

Lana couldn’t help the feeling of disappointment that lodged firmly in her gut. He would never change. It wasn’t like they hadn’t been here before, him drunk and overly honest, telling him about a girl he’d banged - the difference this time was that they weren’t in a relationship, and she couldn’t berate him about it the way she would’ve before. 

He struggled to sit upright, mostly falling towards his knees before he caught himself to sort of slump over. Archer looked up at Lana’s face, his mouth stretching into a loose, unhinged grin. 

“So why is it that you’re here, then? Pam refuse to leave? Threaten you on the grounds that you give her more cocaine or she’d fuck you to death?” She couldn’t help the sarcasm, it was her first defense mechanism when her feelings got (only a tiny bit) hurt. 

He shook his head, his neck bouncing back and forth loosely, drunk off his ass and uncoordinated. “Nah. I just wanted to hang out with you, you Lana.”

“On the one night that I actually manage to sleep, you come to ‘hang out’. That is the definition of irony.”

“Actually Lana, in this case, it’s situational irony. There is a slight but noticeable difference!” He chuckled to himself, before falling onto the flat of his back, using his feet to push himself up towards the pillows. He went a little too far, his head clunking noisily against the headboard, but it apparently didn’t phase him. He was probably numb, anyway.

She rolled her eyes and followed him up the bed, sticking a pillow against the headboard to prop herself up, seated beside him. She kicked her legs out, sticking her feet back under the blankets, before tugging the other pillow out from Archer’s head to rest on her lap. He floundered a bit attempting to sit up, and Lana sighed, grabbing his arm to pull him to her level.

He didn’t look that happy with himself, for a guy that had just spent a few hours having all kinds of freaky sex. Not to mention he was drunker than usual, which was quite a feat for someone with as much tolerance as Archer had. Then again, he had fucked up _entirely_ that day, losing their coke stash, not to mention overhearing his mother’s stinging aside over the radio… he did have good reason for being as fucked up as he clearly was.

“Are you okay?” came out of Lana’s mouth before she could stop herself. Her brain had clearly gone ahead of her mouth, and she sucked her lips into her mouth the second the words spilled out. She cleared her throat, as he turned to look at her, and started again. “What I mean is… I’m sorry you heard what Malory said. I mean, not that she wasn’t right because you so, so fucked up and lost us more coke and more money by extension, but it still sucked that you had to hear that.”

Archer’s face went hard, like he’d gone away from himself for a moment, and he abruptly turned away from her. He didn’t say anything, again, unlike him, and Lana knew immediately that she’d struck a chord. Well, anything to do with his mother struck a chord in him, struck the chord and played the whole song, really, and she knew there was a wall of concrete around him having anything to do with Malory. She knew how much it affected him.

“It’s not like I’m not used to it, Lana. Just leave it, it’s totally fine,” he said, all trace of his usual playfulness buried and dead. “Super fine.” He slid off the bed, gelatinous and loose-limbed, over to where his bottle had fallen. So, the descent into black-out drunk had started. He sat back against the box spring, crossing his legs lotus style as he took another huge gulp, the liquid audibly sloshing around in the glass container.

“Yeah, so fine you went and had miserable mutually self-loathing sex with Pam,” she retorted. She scooted forward, leaning over to look him in the face. Yeah, he definitely wasn’t happy, but he’d gone from angry and closed off to mostly looking upset. “And yes, I know just how self-loathing-y it was from the level of sloppy drunk you are right now.”

Lana sighed, reaching out to put her hand on his shoulder. She let it slide closer to his neck, curling her thumb around the back of his spinal column to brush up against his hairline. He leaned into her touch, his temple bumping against the column of her forearm, turning his nose into her wrist. They sat there for a moment like that, his breath warm against her skin. 

She was eternally frustrated by his need to do everything by himself, his inability to really trust anyone or anything. “If you had just let me in on what you were doing, idiot, I would’ve been able to help. Or at the very least, stopped you from fucking it up entirely,” she said under her breath. Her exhaustion didn’t let her censor her words as much as she would’ve wished, and as soon as Lana realized what she’d said, she (mostly) regretted it.

He abruptly smacked her hand away, leaning hard on his arm to turn around and face her, far out of her touch. “What the shit, Lana! You have _no idea_ what you’re talking about!”

They sat there glaring at each other, at a total standstill. The corners of his mouth turned down, the frustration in his watery eyes revealed more than he could say to her. She watched his expression change, watched him slump over, resigned, and then it hit her.

“Oh my god. _You_ didn’t fuck it up… you covered for Pam, didn’t you?” 

He sniffed loudly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “So what if I did?”

Lana sat there, gobsmacked, giving herself a minute to pick her jaw up off the floor. “So you’re telling me that you did something (mostly) selfless for someone else, and took the heat for something you didn’t do?”

She shuffled off the bed onto the floor, kneeling beside him. She grabbed onto his shoulder, pulling him over to look at the back of his neck, and then his temple. 

“Jesus, shit, ow, Lana, what are you doing?” She ruffled up the back of his hair, and then grabbed his arms to pinch at the skin. “Yes, that is my arm, and you are entering stranger danger territory right now!” He giggled despite himself as she touched the inside of his elbows. Ticklish, then.

“I want to see if Krieger switched you out for an android or put another chip in your brain.” 

“Is it really that out of character for me to do something mostly nice for another person? Out of the goodness of my own heart, Lana?” he retorted, batting her hands away from his arms and head. He didn’t let go of her, though, the two of them sitting with their knees knocking together on the floor, facing one another. 

“Sort of. Yes. Mostly yes.” 

His eyes widened at that, before furrowing into a rather distressed look. “Are you totally forgetting that time I lept off a building to save you when you fell because you apparently couldn’t hold on, even with those gigantic gloves you call hands? Or when I literally died under the ocean and gave you the last oxygen tank to save your precious unborn child? Ringing any bells for you, Lana?”

“Yeah, but I’m not talking about me-person, I’m talking about anyone else-person. I don’t count, Archer. I am a non-entity of being nice to-ness. Besides, those were life or death circumstances, I just mean nice, like nice for the sake of being nice or making someone else feel better nice.”

“The word nice sounds really weird when you say it over and over again. Nice.”

“Nice. _Nice._ Stop laughing. Nice.” 

“Nice.” He snorted and started laughing again, leaning over and smacking his head with a dull thud against hers. They stayed like that for a moment, before Lana pulled back a bit, their noses bumping as she leaned back onto her hands. She cleared her throat, and sort of gestured for him to move back up to the bed. He did so, scrabbling at the sheets with his hands, pulling himself back up onto the mattress. Like an old, mangy cat. He was such a goddamn mess.

She laid down next to him despite herself, beginning to feel the exhaustion spread to her fingers and toes. Her back still fucking hurt from the crash, so she turned on her side to face him, dragging her knees up to support herself more. 

Archer was flat on his back, arms and legs starfished and only half under the sheets. His head lolled to the side, facing her, and Lana let herself look. He looked a little older, the beginnings of silvery hair starting at his temples. Still dashingly handsome, though. Damnit. 

“I really am an asshole, aren’t I?” he murmured.

“Yeah, like a huge, gaping, fucked out one. All prolapsey.”

“That’s rude,” he replied flatly, reaching a hand over to push some of her hair out of her face. “And a little disgusting, ew, Lana.” She half (more than half) expected a witty retort, but it seemed he had more or less admitted defeat.

They just looked at each other for a long, quiet moment, his hand dropping to the pillow to rest near her face. He turned on his side, shaking the bed to face her, blinking lazily as he struggled to stay awake.

“But I’ve gotta admit... it was _nice_ what you did for Pam. In a roundabout way, I’m really... kinda... proud of you, Archer,” Lana admitted, resting her hand on her stomach. His eyes lit up a little bit, at that, and he drunkenly squirmed his way a little closer to her. 

“Does that mean we can spoon? I could really go for some spooning right now.”

“And spend all night cringing while you drunkenly push your dick against my ass? No thanks,” replied Lana, her face heating a bit at his question. “I don’t even remember saying that you could sleep here.”

“I did a nice thing today--”

“Well, technically it’s yesterday at this point--”

“ _Regardless_ , Lana, you should do a nice thing too and let me sleep here instead of being a… mean… lady. Or something.” 

“ _Fine_ ,” she said with a note of resignation, reaching over to the bedside table to flick off the lamp. “Just… be quiet and let me sleep, then.” She shuffled herself firmly away from him, lying on her back with her head decidedly turned the other way. The majority of the blankets were twisted around Archer’s feet, so she pulled off the top sheet and tucked it around herself, creating something of a barrier between him and herself.

The silence stretched between them for awhile, and Lana let her eyes close, starting to relax a bit more. Truthfully, it wasn’t like she hated having him in her bed, even if he sort of smelled like sex and regret, but it was nice just to hear someone breathing beside her. Well maybe not just someone, a specific someone, the specific someone she used to fuck into oblivion before collapsing into a sweaty pile with. Kissing the rope marks around his wrists. Smoking weed together in bed, talking about recent kills. Firing bullets into the guy strangling her, picking her up by the arm to jump out of a 3rd floor window.

A lot of hurt and anger.

Lana rolled onto her side away from him, curling into herself a bit. Yeah… she was pretty lonely. She pressed the heel of her hand against her eyes, willing her brain to stop with its runaway train of thoughts. She didn’t need to feel sad on top of all the other shit she felt already… it was getting to be too fucking much.

She was shaken out of her thoughts by an arm sneaking under her midsection, and another curling around her hip. Archer pulled her close, his breath warm on the back of her neck. “Quit thinking about how much you hate your life and snuggle me, Lana.”

“Snuggle you.”

“It’ll be the nicest snuggling you ever had…” he said, sleepily, already beginning to doze off (or pass out, boozehound) behind her. 

And… okay, she did have to admit it felt pretty good. He was strong and warm and familiar, this strange person who she maybe wasn’t strong enough to boot out of her life for good. She wasn’t going to fool herself into thinking that she could change him, or that she was the only one who understood him. That was some fairy-tale bullshit, and Lana knew she wasn’t exactly a princess. If anything, Archer was the damsel in distress. Emotional distress.

He mumbled something behind her, pushing his hips up against her backside. Yeah, that was a little much, but Lana felt her eyes start to droop shut despite herself. Fuck it. She had to get her sleep somehow.

Maybe Archer wasn’t people yet, but he was trying. 

Definite progress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy. I swear there will be porn at some point. 
> 
> Nice.


	4. Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after "Baby Shower" but before "Smuggler's Blues". Um, hey, some porny bits so I bumped the rating up! Also fair warning for my favorite weirdo Krieger, being weird. Also a bit of 'Time Period? What Time Period?' but this is Archer we're talking about.

Onesies. Bibs. Tiny little baby shoes. Stuffed animals.

It was like a baby store had exploded over her entire bedroom, and Lana couldn’t help but feel a little… hopeful, for the first time since Isis had more or less imploded. She hadn’t expected a baby shower, or gifts, or Kenny Loggins (whoever that was, she sort of understood after Archer’s stammering, bewildered explanation) or Malory attempting to be nice or really any of it. Up until this point, she’d more or less thought of her pregnancy as a burden to everyone else and, truthfully, it was weird to see her co-workers (or were they friends now? frenemies?) care that much.

She folded a tiny pair of pants into a neat square, placing them next to the equally miniscule shirts she’d just finished folding. There was a stack of cards to her left, Cyril’s cheque crumpled into a ball further left, and Krieger’s breast pump somewhere in the mix further off to the side. It was calming to Lana, inventorying everything she’d received, an illusion of structure in her life. Seated in the center of her floor rug with the material proof that she was indeed having a baby strewn out around her was starting to make it real for her. 

And of course there was the crib… She’d more or less pushed it into the corner for now, and maybe it was a little symbolic, but she wasn’t quite ready to deal with the hailstorm of emotions relating to that particular crib, and the tiny, lonely person who’d inhabited it many years ago. Lana let her mind stick on the thought for only a moment, before she distracted herself with receiving blankets.

She glanced up at the clock next to her bed, aware of the darkness that had washed over her bedroom. 11:30 already… she had been elbow-deep in baby accessories for the last few hours, then. At least she could admit to herself now that she was, indeed, baby crazy. She yawned into the back of her hand, shifting on her legs as she felt her the pressure in her bladder. Yeah, she’d definitely been sitting there too long.

Lana leaned forward on her hand and stumbled up to her feet. It was getting harder and harder to move around the way she did before, the basketball lodged in her gut becoming more apparent with every week that went by. It wasn’t like it would be that much longer, in the grand scheme of things, that she’d have a living, breathing, shrieking, pooping teeny person to take care of on top of all the other (figuratively) shitty people she already had to care for. It was daunting, but she couldn’t deny her excitement.

Beginning to put things into drawers, Lana let her mind wander. She didn’t even notice the knock at the door, or the spindly old woman slip through the door crack, until Malory’s bony finger jabbed into her shoulder. Lana whirled around, clutching a pair of little shoes in her hands, wondering how her reflexes had gotten so damn bad. Some secret agent.

“Oh… uh, hi, uh, Malory...” she started, eyes wide as Malory’s disparaging grimace peered back up at her. “What are you doing here? You scared the shit out of me!” 

The older woman swished her drink with an eyebrow piqued, and stepped over the various items on the floor to sit on the corner of the bed. She was in a dressing gown, makeup still very much in-tact, hair coiffed and jewelry twinkling around her neck. It was unlike Malory to be seen anything less than visually perfect, and the same applied then, as it did always. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” said the older woman, nose turned up as she looked at the room in disarray. “And so I went to fetch Woodhouse to pour me another drink, and on my way back to my room, I saw the light under your door and thought I would… check in.” She sipped lightly on her drink, her eyes darting away so that Lana couldn’t catch her gaze.

“Uh-huh,” murmured Lana, putting the shoes down on her dresser. She turned and leaned against the garish mahogany, crossing her arms to stare Malory down. The older woman wasn’t the type to look away, prone to glaring at anyone who dared to meet her icy visage. It seemed, however, that her hands had become terribly interesting in the last few minutes or so.

Lana cleared her throat, and stepped quietly over to where Malory was sitting. She took a moment to gage the other woman’s disposition before heavily joining her on the edge of the bed. “Sooo what’s up?” 

“What do you mean ‘what’s up’?” retorted Malory, pitching her voice high and nasally to imitate her. “‘What’s up, Malory, what’s up’?” God, Lana was tired of this constant song and dance of deflection and sarcasm when it came to either Archer. It did explain where he got it from, definitely, but good Lord, it wasn’t that hard to tell that something was bothering Malory, whether or not she’d ever admit it. She obviously wanted to talk.

“You literally never, and I mean _literally_ , just pop into my room to ‘check in’. So, I reiterate, what is _up_ , Malory?” 

Malory’s mouth twisted sharply, and she rattled the ice around in her cup before taking a good swig. “Did you enjoy your baby shower?”

The gears started turning in Lana’s head. It was strange, to her, that Malory seemed to put that much effort into something for someone else. Then again, maybe Malory had never had a shower of her own? Archer’s conception and the events occurring thereof were more or less a mystery to Lana, with gaps surrounding his childhood slowly being filled in by Woodhouse and Archer himself. 

She’d more or less surmised from various off-handed statements that the first 5 or so years of Archer’s life were almost completely devoid of Malory’s presence. Although it probably had a lot to do with Malory’s mostly illegal spy activity, Lana had to wonder if Malory maybe never wanted Archer all that much, or even still wanted him that much (so much as clung to him out of mutual co-dependence and fear of abandonment). 

Lana must’ve let it show on her face, because Malory’s eyebrows drew together, and she sneered, “I take it you didn’t, then? After all that work I put in for your sake, Lana?” 

“Stop it! Of course I liked it. It was a huge surprise, I had a great time, and I really wasn’t expecting anything, actually,” she confessed, picking at a thread on the duvet cover. Malory gave her an inquiring look, before taking another slow sip of her drink. “Besides, didn’t Archer and Pam do most of the actual work?”

“Oh, please, those two wouldn’t know actual work if it crawled up their assholes and started a recruiting agency,” snarked the older woman, “Asking for only illegal immigrants to apply!” 

“Wait, illegal immigrants apply… in their assholes?” 

“Shut your hole, Little Miss Nitpick.” Silence. “It’s late.”

Malory stood then, clearly a little embarrassed, stepping around the various items strewn about the floor over to the baby shoes perched on the dresser. She swiped a finger through the thin layer of dust on the surface, scoffing under her breath. Lana rolled her eyes - dusting was the least of her concerns. Although maybe dust was bad for pregnant ladies? She’d have to look that one up later. Couldn’t be worse for her health than bus crashes or frustratingly endearing trainwreck ex-boyfriends though. 

She picked up the shoes, turning them in her hands. She must’ve seen something she liked, her eyebrow quirking before she placed them gently back down on the dresser, toe to toe. Lana noted that she was easily a little bit drunk (not unusual), staggering before setting her hand on the dresser to prop herself up.

Malory gestured over into the corner with her drink hand, the last of the liquid sloshing around at the bottom. “Who gave you that garage sale piece of garbage?” she rasped, tipping the glass back up to her lips. “I would return it to them. In a coffee can. Full of ashes. Because you burned it into total obliteration.”

Lana closed and opened her mouth a few times, unsure of how to respond to that particular accusation. Of course she’d always know that Malory was cruel, callous and unsentimental, but to not even acknowledge the place where her infant son had slept? Or maybe she’d never even seen it before?

Despite herself (fucking hormones) tears rose to Lana’s eyes, and she coughed into her cupped hand, willing herself to keep it in check. Malory looked down upon her, then stepped over to the crib, grasping onto one of the banisters and giving it a good shake. 

“I wouldn’t trust this rickety old thing to house your inevitably gargantuan spawn. The poor thing will get... splinters!” Malory wiggled it a few times for good measure, but regardless of what attributes she bestowed upon the crib, it stood upright and proud. “You wouldn’t want it to get _splinters_ , now would you?”

She tipped back her drink once more, finishing it off for good, before setting the empty glass inside the crib. Lana felt her blood boil, and desperately took a deep breath to remain calm. Fuck, she was never good at keeping her cool in the first place, pregnant and heartbroken even less-so.

“You could get Cherlene to buy you a new crib! All the latest safety requirements! Ooh, and bigger bars so your little bastard can beat his chest and play King Kong!” 

“ _Your son_ gave me that crib. It was his when he was a baby, which of course _you_ wouldn’t know, and he gave it to me as a gift for _my_ baby. Malory, _take your fucking filthy glass out of my unborn child’s crib_!”

The silence stretched endlessly between them. 

Lana slammed her mouth shut, eyes as wide as dinner plates. She’d never spoken to her (ex) boss like that, never in a million fucking years. Malory would’ve literally ( _literally_ ) murdered her in her sleep. Despite that, Lana felt immediate catharsis, having finally called this woman out on the outcome of the son she’d neglected to raise.

Gingerly, Malory reached into the crib and withdrew the glass with the tips of her fingers. A small admittance of defeat (not that Malory would ever admit that she was wrong, out loud). She kept her shoulders turned, not daring to face Lana after that scourging statement. 

“I suppose antiques have a certain… charm to them,” murmured Malory, curling her fingers tightly around the empty glass. She cleared her throat and stood tall, never a woman to cower, apologize or accept any responsibility for her actions. 

She slinked back to the door, worlds away from Lana perched on the bed, their uneasy midnight conversation apparently coming to a close. In Lana’s opinion, she’d more than overstayed anyway (wasn’t even invited in the first place), and besides the point, she had to piss like a motherfucker and baby kept judo chopping her bladder. 

The older woman opened the bedroom door with a groan, before stopping herself by catching the doorway. She turned back to Lana, let her eyes crawl up from the other woman’s feet, to catch her firm, tired gaze. Malory was all steel and guillotines, all bile and gin, but the crease between her eyes read doubt. Loneliness. Stubbornness. Lana swallowed the lump in her throat, and kept her glare steady.

“Sleep well, my dear,” she said through her teeth. “Perhaps, with a bit of rest, you might wake up in the morning _ever-so-slightly_ less of a self-righteous, persnickety cunt.” 

“Good _night_ , Malory.” 

The door stuttered shut, Malory’s shoes clicking pointedly away, further into the distance until the room fell into a soulless hush. Lana held her composure until she was sure the woman was gone, before whirling around into her bed. She desperately scrabbled for a pillow, picking it up to smash the fabric to her face, muffling the scream of frustration that had been pushing at her lungs through that entire conversation. She just kept screaming until her throat was raw. 

The fucking nerve of that woman. The _fucking_ nerve. Then again, it wasn’t like she had any goddamn clue, nobody but Lana knew that the _bastard_ Malory was referring to was _her own grandchild_ and the child of her own son.

God _damnit_. Lana was so, so fucked.

\---

“So… I’m just going to assume you’re _not_ down here to ask for a breast pump training session?”

Lana jumped back, like the computer system she’d been curiously inspecting was covered in fire ants. She spun around, to meet Krieger’s upbeat, weird little smile. Fuck, it wasn’t like she wasn’t meaning to see him, no she needed to, but no matter what situation she had to be in with him, he kinda creeped her out. 

“Uh… hi Krieger,” she started, her hand subconsciously covering her stomach, as if that would somehow protect herself from him. “I didn’t think I’d find you here at… this time.”

“You didn’t think you’d find me in my makeshift lab doing science things at a ridiculously early hour of the morning?” He raised an eyebrow, setting his coffee mug down next to his monolith of blinking green monitors. “It’s like you don’t even know me!” 

Lana sighed. The last few days since the baby shower had been total shit, between Malory outright ignoring her, her total lack of sleep, and the fear quietly lodging itself in her gut. She didn’t really have anywhere else to turn, and Krieger was definitely scraping the bottom of the barrel. Fuck that, he was the planks on the bottom of the barrel. 

“Okay, so I was looking for you.” 

Krieger tucked a frog into his pocket, and listened.

Lana took a deep breath, darting her eyes away from him before she started to explain, “So… I think I need an ultrasound. I haven’t felt the baby kick in a few days. There hasn’t been any bleeding and I haven’t been in pain, but he usually kicks a lot, and I… I don’t know. Maybe it’s nothing, I might be overreacting, but I want to make sure, so I was wondering if you had a machine or something we could hack together because, okay honestly, I’m getting kind of worried, I can’t sleep or eat, I’m freaking out a bit, and I understand if this isn’t really something that you can do but I just really need to make sure that he’s okay and--”

A hand came down to rest on her shoulder, and Lana was suddenly aware that Krieger had moved fairly close into her personal space. She started a bit, rocking back from him, but the knit of his eyebrows informed her that he was concerned and probably wasn’t going to do anything weird. Keyword: probably.

“If you let me see your titties I can do it,” he volunteered. 

Okay. Probably not.

Lana’s eyes narrowed. “No.”

“...Please?”

“Ugh… fine. You get a 5-second long dual-boob gaze.”

“I can live with that!”

Krieger procured a hospital gown and pants from… somewhere, and then took the few minutes while Lana changed in the corner to produce an ultrasound machine out of… somewhere else. He set up a makeshift examination table for Lana to lay on out of an unused computer desk and some chair cushions, tapping the surface to beckon her to it. 

Barefoot, chilled in the thin front-open gown and pants, Lana inched forward, Krieger holding her elbow to help her onto the surface. He set up the monitor next to her, pressing a few buttons to boot the system, before he disappeared back into the room where he’d found the machine. He came back unwinding the swivel cords from two different instruments, to which Lana balked.

“Nope, nope, nooooope. You are _not_ using the one that goes up my cooch.”

Krieger looked at the instrument in his left hand, heartbroken. “And here I thought we could use this as a bonding opportunity!”

“You still get to see my insides with the other one, Krieger.”

“Oh right!” He grinned. “...Still does it for me.” Lana cringed, but Krieger mercifully put the transvaginal transducer off to the side, instead connecting the regular, non-creepy probey one to the machine. 

He then grabbed his office chair with his free hand, rolling it up to the table where Lana was waiting. A box of latex gloves, the clear gel necessary for the ultrasound, and Krieger himself followed. He cleared his throat, looking up at her with a childlike gleam in his eyes. “Titty time?”

Lana rolled her eyes, reaching for the gown ties to open it to the front. It was a bit chilly in Krieger’s room (office? dungeon? lab?), her skin rippling with raised bumps, nipples hard as bullets against the thin material. She shrugged the gown off her shoulders, letting it fall to her elbows, her breasts and the top of her stomach exposed to him.

As strange as it was in practice, Krieger outright staring at her breasts wasn’t as invasive or creepy as it probably should’ve been. As much as she hated to admit to herself, ISIS was more or less Lana’s family now. Her big, creepy, dysfunctional, sexual deviant, drug and booze addled psychotic family. Although... it wasn’t terribly different from her biological one. The main difference, she knew for a fact that her ISIS family cared. As much as they’d bitch and moan and avoid admitting it, their actions spoke louder than their disgruntled murmuring.

“Yep… those are some nice titties!” He cleared his throat, standing up to prep the machine. Leave it to Krieger to not make a big deal out of things… whatever that “thing” was. She didn’t even want to know. She pulled the gown back up over herself, tying it around her breasts to leave her stomach exposed.

He snapped on a pair of the latex gloves, and reached over Lana to the opposite side of the examination table, dragging one of his standing lights over to her. Flicking it on, he directed the the beam over her, casting a glow in the otherwise consuming darkness in the room. Computers whirred in the background, Lana taking a deep breath in preparation for what she was afraid to find out.

Clinically, he pushed the sides of her gown further down to bare more of her stomach. As weird as he was, Krieger could be an incredible doctor when he wanted to be. Lana watched him smooth the gel over her stomach, before prepping the transducer to perform the ultrasound. He blew on the tip to warm it up a bit, which struck Lana as unnecessary but welcome kindness, grateful as the wand met her belly. 

“Okay… where’s our fetus,” murmured Krieger, keeping his eyes on the monitor as he moved the wand around. The amount of pressure was uncomfortable, as he pressed the wand into different areas, trying to pinpoint the baby’s exact location. 

She felt her chest tighten, her breath quicken. What if the baby had three legs? What if the baby was mentally handicapped, or had some kind of defect? Or what if it was just… gone? She tightly closed her eyes, her mouth twisting in pain as her brain raced ahead of her.

“Yep, yep, yep! We’ve got a heartbeat! Well not ‘we’, although technically ‘we’ all have one, but I mean I have found the teeny tiny heartbeat that _we_ were looking for. And we as in the literal we! Whee!”

Lana raised her hand to her mouth, forcing herself to stay quiet despite the flood of relief coursing through her entire body. After a few moments she couldn’t hold back her laugh, ignoring the tears in her eyes, Krieger moving the wand around to get a better picture, before turning the monitor to face her.

And yeah, that was her baby, heartbeat, hands, feet, weird sea-monkey head and all. Lana stared intensely at the monitor, wanting to memorize every curve and shape of her child, needing to digest that it was okay and nothing bad had happened. She didn’t even know what she’d do if anything happened.

She reached out, tracing the curve of its head with her fingers, before Krieger moved the wand to get another picture of the baby. It was in profile, its little legs curled up, breathing but barely moving within her. Maybe just sleepy.

“Well, looks like she isn’t a conjoined twin! Aww...” chirped Krieger, an odd tone of disappointment layered within his voice. Lana took a moment to let herself be reassured, before she properly processed Krieger’s comment.

“You mean… it’s… a girl?” 

“Well I’m not sure if she identifies as a girl… you might have to ask her on that one, I’m not big on misgendering fetuses. That’s just ethically wrong. But at least biologically she appears to be female!” 

Oh god. A girl. In Lana’s head, up until this point, she’d always thought of her baby as a boy or an it. Even though there was a 50/50 chance, the idea of having a girl seemed somehow more… scary. It wasn’t even that girls were fragile or that girls were bad or even that she didn’t want a girl. Maybe it had something to do with her own feelings of failure at well, being a woman sometimes (most times), and oh god she couldn’t fathom the idea of someone making fun of her baby girl for having man hands, or trying to teach her kid how to cook or do something that wasn’t firing a semi-automatic machine gun and yelling. She couldn’t even teach a girl how to respect herself since Lana clearly had no concept of how to be treated by men, considering she’d either pushed them all away or let them walk all over her and utterly destroy her self-esteem, with no room for middle ground. Oh god, she wasn’t sure she could do this.

“You know that your face is turning red, right? Maybe you should take a breath?” 

Lana noisily remembered how to inhale.

Krieger offered her a weird little smile and a cloth he procured from… somewhere. Lana accepted it with one of her shaking hands, using it to wipe the gel off her stomach. Krieger busied himself with the monitor, pushing buttons and making things click to get the sonogram to print. Lana swung her feet off the table sitting upright, clutching a hand to her stomach. 

Okay so maybe a bit of the reason that she’d envisioned a little boy had a lot to do with Archer. She’d seen the reluctant pictures, the forced poses and the lonely candids, and while Archer was incredibly good looking as a grown man, he’d made an even more beautiful little boy before age (and his mother) had stamped the innocence out of him. Those gorgeous clear blue eyes, pale skin, dimples, and even though every picture featured a fairly dour, sad expression, she knew the sweetness in him. She knew that smile he hid was boyish and charming. The thought of that bright little smile looking up at her, calling her mom, telling her he loved her, coming over for hugs to show her toys… her heart just fucking melted. 

Lana was pulled back out of her head as Krieger pushed the print-out of the sonogram into her hands. “I figured you’d want that! You can put it up on your fridge or in a baby book or in your wallet or masturbate with it or put it wherever you feel like, really. Baby’s first picture! Yay!”

“...Thanks, Krieger,” said Lana, pulling her gown fully closed over her midsection. Now that her fears were more or less resolved, his creepy-factor was really starting to put her off. She hopped off the table and shuffled over to where she’d discarded her nightgown. Keeping her back to him, she quickly changed out of the flimsy hospital gown, keeping herself as covered as she could while doing so. She folded the sonogram print in half and tucked it into the pocket of her robe for safe-keeping.

Fully clothed once more, Lana turned to face him with her hands on her stomach, clearing her throat. “Seriously… I really do appreciate this.” 

“Enough to let me squeeze your titties?”

“Ew.”

“Aww…”

Lana closed Krieger’s door behind her, walking away from his room a little quicker than she quite intended. She didn’t feel as relieved as she thought she might’ve, another type of anxiety pushing against her chest now. How in the fuck was she supposed to raise a baby girl? She just kept having flashbacks to being 7 years old and her babysitters calling her ‘he’ all the time… goddamnit. 

And then baby kicked her in the bladder so hard that Lana, honestly, peed herself a little. 

“Fuck…”

Okay, yeah, girl or not, that baby was still one part Archer and one part Kane - maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Lana could totally do this. I am woman, hear me roar and all that bullshit. Totally.

\---

“Yeah. Totally,” said Archer, his stubble scratching against the soft flesh of her inner thighs. He dipped his head down, kissing the hollow where her thigh met her pelvis, before sliding back up her naked body. He set his elbows on either side of her, letting his weight rest down to spread her thighs apart. She pulled her knees up, cradling him with her legs.

“No, not like… totally,” she giggled, pressing her palm into her face to hide her embarrassment. “Okay, I maybe sorta kinda did green out and why are you making fun of me! Stop laughing, shitass! This is a vacation, we’re supposed to do stupid, irresponsible things!”

“Yeah, like meet a hot local girl at the bar and tag-team fuck her into unconsciousness, Lana, not steal all of her weed while she’s passed out, high-tail it back to the villa without me and smoke yourself stupid waiting for me to catch up.” 

“I got bored!” she replied, totally innocuously. Totally. “And then look, you got to find me here all cute and sexy and naked in a bed and cuddled up and stuff and then wake me with gentle oral sex and orgasms. Yay!”

“Nobody’s given me gentle oral sex yet,” Archer retorted, pushing his hips up against hers, pointedly. He slid a hand under himself, adjusting his cock to lay upright, hard and slick against the inside of her hip. “I request the gentlest of oral sex, Lana. I will accept nothing but the soft silky feel of your mouth on my dick, and a languorous tonguing of my balls and possibly my taint.” 

“You’re so stupid and… stupid,” she said affectionately, taking his head in her hands, pulling him down for a kiss.

“I will also accept a finger in the ass and tandem gentle blowjob,” he murmured into her mouth. His mustache kind of tickled (she still wasn’t sure how she felt about it) but his lips were soft and he tasted like liquor and strawberries. His tongue slipped into her mouth, and she met his, before sucking his bottom lip between her teeth and giving it a quick nip. He pulled back, kissing the side of her mouth, pushing his hips into the crux of her pelvis with more urgency. She wrapped her legs loosely around his upper thighs, tipping her hips up to meet him.

Archer slid his palm up the back of her thigh, pushing her legs further apart as he pushed his hips into her. She reached under him, taking his cock in her hand, kissing him as she slowly jerked him off. “I want to fuck you,” he said, biting her lower lip. 

She smiled, twisting out of his hold to reach over to the bedside table for a condom. He grabbed onto the ridge of her hip, pulling her back so he could kiss her breasts. She laid there for a moment, arms resting in the halo of her long, dark hair, confused and then less confused as he pushed the head of his cock into the slickness of her cunt, just enough that she could feel the herself start to stretch around him. “Come on, Lana…” 

She snorted, grabbing him by his chin to pull him down to look at her. “Nope.” 

He whined a bit, giving her a truly delicious pout, pushing his cock a little further in. Fuck, it did feel good though. She brought a hand up to meet his stomach, the pads of her fingers curving into his abs, stopping him from going any further. “Please? Lana, you know how good it feels...”

“Do you want to be a father? Because --”

\---

“-- _that’s_ how you become a father. Although, gotta say, the chocolate bar method works surprisingly well, so like, good on him and stuff.”

“Niiiice.”

Lana jolted awake, snorting loudly before covering her mouth to force coughs into her cupped hand. She was distinctly aware of Archer laughing at her from the opposite end of the divan, Pam in-between them with Lana’s knees on her lap. She elbowed her way up on her mountain of cushions and blankets to sit upright, pulling her feet out of Archer’s hands on the opposite side. 

“How’s it goin’ there, Miss Piggy?” quipped Pam, poking Lana’s outer thigh. “You were grunting and moaning in your sleep. Have some good dreams there?”

Lana blinked back at her, slowly coming to the realization that she’d been in the middle of a sex dream (well… memory), draped across Pam and Archer while they watched some idiotic trash TV show on the only small, out-dated dial-TV in the entire mansion. Didn’t rich people like sitcoms too?

Her face went a bit heated as the tinny noise of women and men yelling from the TV filled up the room. “Did I fall asleep?” she said, before coughing to clear her throat. She smacked her lips a few times - her mouth felt like the fucking Sahara desert. How long had she been snoring the afternoon away for, anyway? She swung her head around to the grandfather clock in the corner - it was 11:34 in the night. Holy fuck.

“Yeah, somewhere after the second half of _Showgirls_ , and you were all curled up in the corner and you looked real cozy and all smiley-like so I went to get some cushions and blankets (and some more cocaine), but instead I found Archer and he decided to keep us company so here we are, on the, what… 4th consecutive...?”

“More like 5th-and-a-half!”

“5th-and-a-half consecutive episode of the _Jerry Springer_ show! This one is about a bunch’a’guys impregnating multiple women, and then the women team up and gang beat ‘em! Yeah, they totally let them fight onstage and it’s _awesome_. I’ve seen, like, three mid-fight boobs!”

Lana raised an eyebrow, directing her gaze to Archer’s nonchalant little smile. “And approximately how much coke has she consumed during the last five-and-a-half episodes?”

“Approximately as much bourbon as I have… dranken. Drunken? Dranken.” He burped, loudly. “Lana.” Then, he reached for his glass.

“Drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“No, I mean, the proper syntax in that sentence is ‘drunk’.”

“Just shut up and relax and watch the uneducated people fist-fight, Lana.”

She sighed, and okay, the couch was pretty comfortable, and Pam and Archer were warm and Pam pulled on her legs again until her legs were back in her lap, feet in Archer’s, one of his hands resting on the bare skin of her ankle. She closed her eyes, exhaling easily, hazily watching the TV, Archer’s thumb moving back and forth over the bone of her ankle, up the back of her achilles tendon, his fingers pressing lightly into the sole of her foot. It was… nice.

Pam laughed loudly as some woman on the TV got her wig ripped off and punched in the nose, and yeah… Lana could live with this.

She closed her eyes and relaxed. Archer pulled the blankets over her feet, and Pam turned up the volume on the TV.

It wasn’t quiet, but maybe she didn’t really want it that way. Not really. 

...Fuck. 

Something something danger zone.

Lana fell asleep, Archer tracing patterns in the soles of her feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so let's talk about that season finale, hey? Part of the reason I waited writing this chapter was because I wanted to find out for sure what I already pretty much knew, Archer being the father of Lana's crotch spawn and all, but I figure that the rest of this fic will move in correspondence with the season, but I already have a sequel planned and idea of how many chapters we have left? Whoops, Archer just apparently brings out all the feels in me. Regardless, hope you enjoy(ed) this chapter and I'm already writing the next. See you next time, leave any criticism or feedback that you please. 
> 
> P.S. Lana's little flash-back was a reference to the pictures she dug out in the S2 episode "Blood Test". Lana with long hair and Archer with a mustache clinking champagne glasses and being happy! Yay!
> 
> P.P.S. I do not advocate for unsafe sex because the sex detailed here is some pretty risky ass sex but yeah uh Archer isn't smart in that regard. Use condoms! This has been a PSA.
> 
> Also, if you're trying to write your own Archer fic but need some help with Archer-izing the dialogue, beta-ing or someone to bounce ideas off of, send me an email at angrygirlsquid@gmail.com because I would love to brainstorm and/or add some more fic to this sorry-ass archive.


	5. Open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place before and directly after "On the Carpet". Discussions with Malory and Ray. Memories. Revelations. Lana sets out on a mission.

“Oh… you’re here.”

Lana coughed into her freshly poured cereal, whipping her head around to find Malory in the kitchen doorway. The last time she’d seen the woman the night before, she’d been in the grips of some sort of mental breakdown, but it seemed to have slightly abated after Ray had called in to let them know they were on their way back home with a… surprise. Archer and Cyril hadn’t killed each other to death and Ray wasn’t paralyzed - Lana considered that a halfway successful mission. Were they even missions anymore? Halfway successful halfcocked half-drunk half-mandroid half-wit drug escapade, then.

Still… it was clear from the circles under her eyes, and the shakiness of her old hands as she reached for the coffee liqueur that Malory was still in the throes of some sort of personal conflict. Lana took another spoonful of her cereal, chewing thoughtfully as she peered at Malory from her barstool. The older woman turned her back to Lana as she poured herself a tall, tall, _tall_ strong drink. 

Oh right… Ron.

“...Hey,” said Lana, pushing her spoon around in her bowl. She cleared her throat, crossed her ankles to let her heels bump against the wooden frame of the barstool, and continued, “How are you feeling?” 

“Hang on.”

Malory took a long (long, long, long, long, long) gulp of her drink. Lana’s eyebrows rose steadily towards her hairline as Malory continued drinking, before slamming her glass down on the counter (empty). She then turned to face Lana, her mouth twisted into its usual cruel expression. 

“Why,” she started, before wiping her lips daintily with the tips of her fingers, “I’m just _fantastic_.” 

“And thirsty, apparently.” Lana looked down into her bowl, her cereal becoming milky mush at this point. She pushed it away from herself, suddenly having no appetite, spoon resting on the rim. 

Malory busied herself pouring another drink, before she downed that one as well. She then poured herself a third drink, full to the top, the liquid dripping precariously over the edge of the crystal tumbler. She leaned over to indelicately slurp off the little bit of booze off her fingers, which is exactly where Lana surmised that Malory had been at this for awhile. She sighed (weird), taking her drink in hand, sitting down on the free barstool next to Lana (also weird).

Neither of them spoke, Malory taking sips out of her glass, Lana feeling gradually more uncomfortable as the silence stretched on. She cleared her throat noisily in an attempt to get Malory to do or say something, but her ex-boss seemed hollowed out, in some way. She didn’t seem like her usual self, but really, nothing about anything in either of their lives was ‘usual’. Lana didn’t think Malory was capable of getting hung up on some guy (well not _some_ guy, but still), though. It just seemed… weird for Malory to have anything resembling emotions that didn’t fall under the umbrella of narcissism, guile or pure, unconcentrated cruelty. 

“Sooo… you wanna talk about it?” 

Malory looked away, swirled her drink in her glass, took another sip, scratched her wrist, adjusted her clothes. Lana waited. 

And waited.

Malory took a long sip.

And waited.

“Sooo… no?”

Lana swung her leg off of the bar stool, preparing to make her valiant escape from the steadily-becoming-more-and-more-unbearable situation.

“Open relationships!” the grey haired woman bleated. Lana’s eyebrows rejoined her hairline once more, and her mouth opened to respond, but Malory beat her to it. “Thoughts. Opinions. _Whatever._ Open relationships.”

“Um. _Wow_.”

“Shut that ungodly whore slot you call a mouth and speak up!”

“Sooo… Shut my mouth and talk? Okay, I’ll get right on it.”

“I dislike you so very, very, very, very much,” Malory retorted, but Lana heard the pinch of fondness in the woman’s drunken slurring. Out of all the ISIS employees, it was pretty clear to Lana that while Malory didn’t wholly respect or agree with her opinions, she didn’t disregard them altogether either, not like she did with Pam, Cheryl or Ray. Malory was an intelligent woman - she recognized intelligence, but didn’t necessarily appreciate it.

Lana sat back down on her bar stool, hand going to her stomach as baby wiggled around inside. She was getting so mobile, so excitable. Maybe she recognized Malory as her biological grandmother by her drunken warbling. Lana inwardly cringed.

“I haven’t got the rest of the century, you know!”

“What? You asked m-- shut up. Just, um, give me a second to think about it.”

Yeah, what _did_ Lana think of open relationships anyway? She let her mind dwell on it for a second. So, okay, Archer and her had kind-of-almost-sort-of been in an open relationship at points? They’d fucked girls (and guys… ahem) together, but at the same time they’d never really had the ‘talk’ or discussed what that meant, and Archer had cheated on her left and right, only telling her after the fact, or being forced to tell her when he didn’t want to. She’d come over to his place numerous times to find him in bed with the maid, or gardener, or anyone who’d have him really. That wasn’t an open relationship, right? Just a scumbag boyfriend.

Although… she had fucked guys for the sake of missions (they did talk about this), or revenge fucked guys after finding him cheating (they yelled at each other about this). Lana felt uneasiness, shame, even, crawl through her gut. While she hadn’t been as morally fucked as Archer was, and she understood what fidelity meant, it wasn’t like she was some angel. Not to mention occasionally accidentally missing her birth control on purpose, using ‘I was drunk’ as an excuse to ‘forget’ to use condoms, the whole stealing her ex-boyfriend’s sperm… she inwardly cringed. Okay, maybe _had been_ totally a little bit baby crazy. She’d just been really fucking lonely, even with Archer, she’d been lonely. It explained it, but it didn’t necessarily excuse her either...

“Were you lobotomized in the last 5 minutes or so? Speak up, dear.”

Lana noisily exhaled, trying to cover the fact that her mind had wandered into the depressing territory. She sniffed, crossing her ankles the other way on the barstool. “Well… I think that monogamy isn’t for everyone.”

Malory sniffed indignantly. “Obviously. Or we wouldn’t be having this conversation!” She took another gulp from her quickly emptying tumbler. “It’s like that insufferable man is doing this to _punish_ me!”

“Do you want to tell me the entire situation, or just keep alluding to it like I’m not going to put two and two together because you apparently think I’m half-retarded?”

“Well… not _half_.”

“ _Malory_.”

The older woman rolled her eyes so hard that Lana almost got dizzy. She stood up, taking her glass with her back to the bottle of liqueur. With her back turned to Lana as she poured, she muttered, “You’re right. If I am to be with Ron, he wants us to go to… counseling.”

“Woooow. Counseling?”

“ _Counseling_.”

“Riiiight… and?” 

“And… and... he wants to _open_ our marriage!” Malory whirled around, glass and bottle clutched in her spindly hands. “I simply _cannot_ have it! It’s… it’s... blasphemous! It just isn’t done! Has he no class!?” 

“Uh… huh.”

“What!?”

“Well… would it really be that bad? I mean...”

Malory’s eyes narrowed. 

“Oookay. I mean, sure it’s kind of unorthodox (to some people), but... maybe he feels like it’ll put you guys in a better place, uh, trust-wise-y? So you can talk about that kind of… um, stuff?”

“I haven’t the faintest as to why he wouldn’t trust me!”

Lana couldn’t help but laugh at that. Malory’s glare intensified, and she pointedly tipped the bottle of liqueur to top off her glass once more. “Come on, Malory. I mean, look at what we’re doing right now. Look at who we are. Look at what’s happened in the last six-ish months. _None_ of us are trustworthy.”

“Speak for yourself,” Malory snarked, but the malice was more or less dulled from her quip due to the liver-destroying amount of booze the tiny woman contained. 

“And I mean, it’s not like you both wouldn’t benefit from it? I’m sure you’ve either thought about sleeping with someone else, or you’ve done it already…”

“Lana Kane, you are _this close_ to… to... I had something for this.”

“What, proving that you’re terrified of letting Ron have any type of control in your relationship because you’re intensely insecure?”

“Insecure? I’ll give you insecure! I once waltzed into the consulate in Prague and convinced an embassador to _amputate_ his manhood with 3 ½ inches of dental floss for the _chance_ to see even the darkened silhouette of my exquisite breasts! Men have _died_ , even _killed_ to be with me! Men have fallen over their bloodied comrades to kiss my baby toe!” 

“3 ½ inches? That’s like, less than ten centimetres--”

“8.89.”

“--Yeeeah, I don’t think you missed much if that’s all it took to lop his dick off.”

“Right?” said Malory, with a giggle. Lana couldn’t help but laugh with her. Malory polished off her drink, before Cherlene (Cheryl/Carol/whatever) popped her head into the entrance way. The heiress-cum-country-star frowned, looked around as if she’d seen a ghost (grandpa?), before she opened her mouth to speak. 

“Hey, y’all, I’m trying to shoot an album cover. So don’t come into the… whoa, there sure are a lot of words in here.”

Malory and Lana both looked at Cherlene curiously, as the younger woman continued to look around the room as if there were something there. 

“Stop reading me!” Cherlene spat, before storming out of the kitchen, cowboy boots clicking noisily as she went down the hallway. A few moments later, the clicking stopped, as Cherlene had apparently removed her shoes. 

“Stop adverbing me!” came the cry from the hallway. 

Yeah, who knew what the fuck _that_ was about, anyway.

\---

Finally having everyone more or less back together again (with _a million dollars_ worth of warheads, _Christ_ ) didn’t relieve Lana’s worrying all that much. It was probably 11pm by the time that everyone had more or less wandered off to their respective rooms, Pam and Cherlene disappearing elsewhere (ew) while Malory (probably) drank herself into liquor-induced semi-catatonic state after announcing the state of her marriage. 

With a lot on her mind, Lana had retreated into the solitude of her own bedroom, wishing a bit that she wasn’t pregnant so that she could get as drunk as Malory was. Sorry baby. Their conversation that morning had knocked around in her mind all day, and thinking about the relationship that her and Archer had previously had… well, it kind of put a lot of things in perspective.

While she hadn’t admitted it to herself after the break-up, Lana’s not-so-secret, burning need for a baby had probably been the final nail in the coffin when it came to their relationship. Well, that and his consuming co-dependence to Malory. Mommy issues abound.

Well, that... _and_ coming to his apartment _after he’d invited her over_ to find him in bed with _triplets_. She didn’t really remember what happened after that, just a lot of screaming and suits on fire... and Archer’s punched out, devastated look when she told him she couldn’t do this anymore, for the last time. 

He’d been so, _so_ bitter about it, constantly bringing up their breakup, accusing her of being obsessed with him, obsessed with having his baby, even when she’d tried to move on, tried to tell him she was done, tried dating Cyril (ugh). Maybe it was because, before, she’d always gone back to him. Maybe he just didn’t know how to show her that he was hurting. Maybe he was angry at her for being just another person who abandoned him. Maybe he’d just never really gotten over her. 

Lana sighed. To be fair, she’d never really gotten over him, either. Goddamnit. 

Even when she’d hated him most, she couldn’t deny the fact that she was intensely attracted to him. Cared about him. Needed him, a little, maybe. Gradually, her hate had grown into tolerance, into fond exasperation, into something that she could honestly consider friendship. Maybe best friendship. They pushed each other's buttons a lot, but after awhile it was mostly out of familiarity more than anything. She knew he’d do anything for her (as long as he could make fun of her for it until the earth inevitably imploded or Lana killed him to death).

Before ISIS had dissolved, they’d hung out after work and gotten pizza together, discussing missions in hushed tones over pepperoni and Diet Coke. She’d taken care of him through chemo, rolled joints for him (she was always better than him at that), shaved his head for him when his hair was falling out because his hands were shaking so badly. They’d gotten epically drunk together after Katya died, him crying in her arms (snot and tears all over her cashmere dress), before he ran away to be a pirate king (asshole). He called her sometimes at odd hours to corroborate trivia with her, and they’d argued about who was right on the phone for upwards of hours, forgetting what they argued about in the first place to take digs at each other over nothing until they were just left laughing and calling each other cunts.

Lately, sometimes, they’d watch movies sitting too close to each other on the couch, sliding into the cracks and trying not to make it obvious to Pam or Cyril or whoever else was there as they moved. Closer. His arm over the back of the couch, thumb brushing the edge of her shoulder. Bickering about anything under the sun, because she knew in a roundabout way that pissing her off made him happy. Her attention made him happy.

Fuck, that was sad, that her closest friend was her hot mess ex-boyfriend. Wait, did that make her a hot mess too? Probably. Yeah, not to mention the fact that she still really, really, _really_ wanted to fuck him.

She’d been dreaming about him nearly every night, by this point. It was probably somewhat due to the close proximity (he was around every day, hanging out with her and the rest of the ISIS crew, making her tea in the mornings if he wasn’t hungover, asking her stuff about the baby, company at night when she couldn’t sleep), but also because they were extremely sexually compatible. 

So maybe she was a little bit dick-hypnotized. Dickmatized. Was that a thing? Whatever. He was exactly her tall, white and handsome type, not to mention a switch (like she was, but had a stronger submissive streak, eager to please, that she managed to coax out of him and it was beautiful), and he could be an incredibly attentive lover when he wanted to be. He also ate pussy like a fiend, so... 

But...also likely because pregnancy was making her _fucking horny_.

Nobody told her that once the sickness went away, seeing even a peek of Archer’s stomach where his shirt lifted up would be enough to get her wet. Sometimes watching him lick his lips in concentration could do it. Pushing his hair back. Looking at her with those searching, steely eyes, unable to say what was written all over his face.

She squeezed her legs together, and rolled onto her side, throwing the magazine she’d been mostly pretending to read onto the floor. Goddamnit, she needed to get laid. She’d been masturbating a lot, lately, reading Malory’s trashy erotica novels and Cosmo magazines for some type of stimulus. She didn’t have a TV in her room, so porn was more or less out of the way, but luckily Lana had a pretty good imagination. Although… she couldn’t really finger-fuck herself anymore, not with baby in the way, but a vibrator more or less did the trick.

She slid her hand between her legs, pushing her fingers up against the soft, warm fabric of her panties. She was already wet, and ugh, goddammit, she wished she had someone else there to do it for her. Lana closed her eyes, hooking a finger into the elastic to slide her panties to the side, her mind conjuring up images of blue eyes and strong shoulders.

“I know I’m hot, girl, but you know I like dick, right?”

Lana groaned, rolling over on the bed to find Ray beaming at her from the doorway. “Doesn’t anyone knock in this hellhole?” 

“I did knock! And you didn’t answer, so I came in to make sure nothing was wrong! I was standing there for, like, five whole minutes watchin’ you get ready for some serious bean-flickin’! You’re a freakin’ secret agent, it ain’t my fault you didn’t notice me!” 

“ _Was_ a secret agent.”

“Yeah, but we civilians, like secret agents, also use our ears to listen, honey!” 

“Oh fuck off,” said Lana, laughing despite herself. She awkwardly sat up, shoving a few pillows behind her back. “Didn’t you spend the last six months drunk in a wheelchair shitting all over yourself, Mr. Secret Agent?”

“Yeah, I’d really love to revisit that traumatic, humiliating experience, so, y’know, _thanks_ ,” he quipped, sauntering forward until his shins hit the bed. He dropped down heavily beside her, crossing his legs and toeing his shoes off the bed, amusement evident on his face. Ray had always been a good friend to her, known for talking Lana out of a lot of bad decisions. She did seem to make a lot of them. “How ya doing, hon? How’s baby?”

“Baby’s good. Y’know, kicking around and stuff, making me pee every 20 minutes. And me? I’m… okay, I guess.”

“Okay and horny?”

“Yep. I had the pleasure of sitting through a thrilling conversation with Malory today about her open relationship, so, that was fun.”

Ray chuckled, “I thought her head was gonna pop off when she told us. Like a lil dandelion, _bwoop_!” Ray gesticulated with his hands. “Pop right on off there.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her drink as much as when she first talked to me about it. That lady must be like… 70% booze, and 30% pure, unadulterated evil.” 

“Eh, I think like at least 10% can be dedicated to horniness.”

“Okay, 70% booze, 30% evil, 10% horny old lady. Ew.”

“Where’d you learn math, girl? In the back of the shortbus? On your knees?”

“Shut your whore slot.”

“Whore slot!”

“Whore slot. Shut. Anyway how was the mission? Aside from the obvious?” 

Ray paused for a moment, looking out the window thoughtfully. Lana peered at him, bemused, as Ray pulled his legs in and turned to face her. Lana echoed his stance, crossing her legs clumsily, lotus style, to match him. Ray was generally more serious, more accountable than most of the people at ISIS (understatement), so she knew when she had to shut up and listen to what he had to say. His morals mostly aligned with hers, and she trusted him to let her know what was up.

“It was… interesting. Different,” he started, licking his lips before he continued. “I think I kinda came to a realization, and I needed to tell you because, you’re well, y’know, the only not totally bat-shit insane person in this entire whack-a-doo place? And also because I think you need to know about it, for personal reasons.”

“You, Cyril and Archer had a desperate, weepy, jungle-y threesome? Did Cyril cry? I hope he cried.” 

“I--what? Fuck you, bitch!” 

“Haha, Ray, I’m just being shitty. Okay, I’m listening. What did you want to tell me?”

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. Then, he reached out taking Lana’s hands to hold between his, opening his eyes to keep them steadily on Lana’s increasingly confused expression. “Ugh. It _literally_ pains me to say this, but I think you really need to tell Archer that you… care about him. And that you’re there for him.”

“I--what? Fuck you, Ray!”

Lana started to yank her hands out of his hold, but the blond man hung on tightly to her fingers. She briefly thought about wrestling herself out of his hold, but she caught the look on his face. He was really serious about this. Where the hell did that come from? What had happened between them?

“I really mean this, doll. You gotta let him know that you care about him.”

She felt her chest tighten, and she opened her mouth to respond, snapping it shut again quickly. She felt like she was going to throw up. That was a real possibility, here. “What? Why? What happened?”

“Well… basically, honey, I’ve had kinda… a suspicion for awhile about something, y’know, and I finally had him admit it and my suspicions were totally 110% accurate.” 

“Suspicious about what? _Ray_.” 

“Okay, okay,” he murmured, squeezing her hands once for good measure. He looked down at the bed for a moment, their knees where they were pressed together, before he turned his concerned eyes back up to her face. “So… I basically called Archer out on his recklessness and general buffoonery. And he told me that he doesn’t care. About whether he’s alive or not, that is.”

“Oh come on, Ray. He does all that reckless shit because he’s _stupid_ , not because he’s suicidal. And also because he’s usually _wasted_.”

Ray quirked an eyebrow, his stare penetrating right through her. “ _Lana_. Honey. Think about it. Seriously.” 

She sat back, the cogs in her brain beginning to turn, humoring Ray, putting some thought into the ridiculous notion that Archer, of all people, was even a teeny bit suicidal. She smirked at first, it was too ridiculous, but as she rested on it further, her face started to fall.

Okay, so, maybe she had told him when this had all first started that she’d rather lose her baby than marry him. Even she knew that she’d gone too far. It had to have hurt him. After he’d told her how he felt. Asked her to run away with him. Basically offered her what he knew she’d always wanted. Yeah, that… that probably devastated him. 

On top of that, Malory had Ron now (again), had pretty much told Archer that he was useless and she held mostly annoyance towards him. Come to think of it, had Malory _ever_ told Archer that she loved him? Had Lana, for that matter? Even when they were together, those years ago, she’d always held it in, held it back, afraid that if she said it, it’d become ‘real’. That if she told him how she felt, he’d ‘win’ in some way.

Not to mention… his alcoholism had gotten decidedly worse in the last year or so. Ever since Barry and Katya had run off together. He’d always been a drinker, yes, but Lana hadn’t seen him without a drink in his hand in months, at this point. Not to mention he was flat-out shitfaced far more than before, wasted in combat, wasted when driving, etcetera forever. He’d been mixing booze and pills more, lately, too…

While he hadn’t exactly taken his work seriously before, she did come to the slow realization that yeah, he had been flat out self-destructive lately. He’d been taking the blame for other people, which was so, so unlike him. Just accepting it when Malory called him a screw-up or a failure. How many times had he been shot, at this point, again? He probably could’ve avoided or at least taken countermeasures to those attacks, as well. How many times had he drunkenly waltzed into a completely terrifying situation where death was almost promised (signed, sealed, delivered), with a eager gait, a sarcastic remark and only his sidearm? 

Shit.

“I… shit.”

 _Shit_.

Ray squeezed her hands again. Lana stared into her lap.

“Hon, I don’t think he thinks that anyone would miss him.”

That wasn’t true. Lana would ‘miss’ him so much that she’d probably blow her brains out (sorry baby) out of sheer annoyance, fly straight into hell and drag his ass back out so that she could yell at him. And then kill him _again_ , throw him back down into Dante’s inferno, go get him again just so he could never hear the fucking end of it. He wasn’t allowed to leave. He couldn’t… die. He couldn’t.

“I guess I didn’t think about it that way before,” mumbled Lana, before clearing her throat. She looked back up at Ray, catching his concerned expression.

“Yeah, I mean I doubt he’s about to go ‘crawling in my skin’ on us or get all razor happy, and shit knows I almost hate the guy, but that doesn’t mean I want him to _die_ , y’know? As fucked the fucked up as it is, ISIS, our little… group, family, or whatever, wouldn’t be complete without his shitty ass.”

Family. Lana’s stomach twisted.

“...You’re right. I’ll talk to him,” she said, still pulling the threads together in her mind. Lana knew, right away, that she had to come up with a game plan. “Yeah… I’ll _talk_ to him.” If she went in there feeling bad for him without knowing what she was going to say, and how to say it, she was definitely going to end up sleeping with him. He had that sad and fuckable thing going. Goddamnit.

Ray sighed in relief. “Thanks, girl. Just don’t let him give you them sad sexy doe eyes and wile his way back into your big ole preggo panties for a pity fuck.”

“It’s like you read minds. Dickhead.”

“Well… I didn’t want to tell you... but, when Krieger was resetting my legs, I got him to--”

“Oh fuck off.”

“Yeah, no I’m totally just fuckin’ with ya. He _did_ give me a self-lubricating asshole, though, so--”

“Fuck _off_ , Ray!”

“Yeah, I’m just being a dick about that too. Although… idea!” 

Lana stalled the conversation, placing a strong hand on Ray’s shoulder to start to push herself up off the bed. “But seriously... thank you for bringing this up to me. Like I said, I’ll go talk some sense into him.”

“That’s possible?”

“Well… I’ll try.”

Yeah, talking sense into Archer was like trying to make a goldfish climb a tree. Throw it as you might, all you’d really end up with was a scabby, dead ass goldfish that had, maybe, seen just one leaf before meeting its goldfish-y maker. That had to count for something.

Lana and Ray stepped out of her bedroom, turning to give one another a tight hug. Ray squeezed her hand once more before they separated, splitting off in opposite directions, Ray back to his own rooms, Lana trudging towards Archer’s. 

She had to come up with a plan. Step One of that plan, bold and underlined, being ‘do not get dickmatized (again) by a certain ex-boyfriend’. 

Steps Two through Ten: _DO NOT GET DICKMATIZED_ (again) _BY A CERTAIN EX-BOYFRIEND._

Yeah… good luck with that one. Lana took a deep breath. Godspeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was only going to post one chapter... and then I somehow wrote almost double the length of the entire fic for one chapter, so it got split into two! Woopsie daisy! So here's this one (Malory! Ray! I do so enjoy writing them), and you get some Archer/Lana goodness at the end of the week (I'm just fine tuning and editing now). Be prepared for some porn and some good old fashioned hurt/comfort. You better be excited, fuckers.
> 
> Also, if you want to ride my dick for updates or discuss or whatever, hit me up at highandholy.tumblr.com. I hang out there.


	6. Small

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lana goes to Archer's room at night. Good old fashioned hurt/comfort, folks. As comfort-y as the Archer cast can get.
> 
> Warning for explicit description of masturbation (!!!), rape jokes, and two very, very, very emotionally stunted people attempting to talk about their feelings. Key word: attempting.

Okay so maybe coming up with a plan was a little harder than Lana had initially thought. She’d been standing outside of Archer’s bedroom for upwards of 15 minutes, trying to sort out the hailstorm of thoughts and feelings that were balled up in her brain. She was still trying to wrap her head around the idea that Archer, the king of self-absorbed narcissistic sociopathy, hated himself enough to outright tell Ray that he didn’t care about his mortality. Yeah… that was not an easy sentiment to accept.

She sighed, falling back to lean against the wall, flicking her eyes to Archer’s closed door. There was light coming through the cracks, and she could hear soft, jazzy music inside. He was still awake, probably drinking or reading or fucking a whore or something, but she still couldn’t bring herself to knock. She hated this whole feeling bad for him thing. Yeah, if she could just go right back to general disdain and underlying sexual attraction, that would be just fucking great.

“Uh, hey you.” 

Lana’s eyes snapped open, and she turned towards the door to find the barrel of a gun pointed squarely at her chest, Archer, shirtless and gleeful, being the one holding that gun. He quickly lowered it, flicked the safety back on, his lips quirking up as he looked her over. “Sorry, I thought maybe the weirdo standing outside my door for the last, like, 20 minutes was maybe… a rapist or something. Didn’t mean to point a gun at you, Lana.” 

“...You thought I was a rapist.”

“I dunno… maybe? Who else waits outside someone’s door for 20 minutes breathing heavily and occasionally moaning?” Archer grinned at her revolted expression, opening the door wider to let Lana slip past him into the room. She didn’t say anything as she beelined to the bed, sitting down because she wasn’t sure that her legs could hold her upright anymore. She was shaking a bit as she undid the ties of her robe, dropping it over the edge onto the floor. He closed the door, flicking the lock, before making his way back to desk chair he’d obviously been occupying, glass carafe of whisky half-full standing proud in his stead.

Archer’s room had always been more or less an extension of his personality - parts of it were organized to a fault, with various medical textbooks stacked on the surface of his desk, his gun laid out in evenly spaced pieces (probably cleaning it) on a cloth next to the half-full glass and carafe, first-aid kit closed and perched on the corner like it’d been abandoned mid-thought. And then there were clothes on the floor, the robe he’d been wearing draped over the back of his chair, and his sheets were rucked up. Tossing and turning, then. Messy in places. Cluttered. 

Lana looked a little closer at his bedside table - comic books stacked on VHS tapes, a half-finished novel he’d left propped open, his glasses in their case, and a small fan left on whirring its way back and forth. There was a record player on the dresser, but the music had stopped, the room mostly silent at this point.

Archer peered at Lana from his chair, about a foot of space between them. He crossed his ankle over his knee, leaning back before remembering that he had a drink, turning to take it in his hand. “So I’m taking it that you couldn’t sleep. You know you can just knock, right? Like people so often do.”

“Well that. And also, I wanted to check on you.”

“Check on me.”

“Yes. Check on you.” She cleared her throat, noisily. Twisted her hands in her dress. “Your chest looks _awful_.”

Archer looked down, bringing his free hand to the swollen, dark bruise in the center of his chest. He winced a bit, like he’d forgotten it was there, and then turned his slightly unhinged expression up to Lana. “What, this? Yeah, I mean ugly, right? But Lana, you’re forgetting one key factor-- I’m like… a lost member of the X-Men or something. Seriously, this’ll heal in a week.” 

“Have you even had anyone take a look at it? Seriously, that’s one hell of a bruise... you might have some broken ribs.”

“Yeah, it does kinda poke in places when I inhale, I guess. But you can’t lie to me, Lana, you just want an excuse to grope my gorgeous, chiseled, masculine body. Did I mention gorgeous?”

She rolled her eyes, leaning forward to snatch the first-aid kit next to him. “Yes, Archer. That’s exactly what it is.”

“Classic Lana. Unable to resist me.”

Lana huffed, busying herself opening the kit so that she didn’t have to look at him. She took a quick inventory, there were butterfly bandages and sutures, some compression bandages, gauze, saline, alcohol wipes, etcetera. She could probably use it to murder him. Probably.

“Lie down. On your back,” she said, tightly, grabbing his hand to pull him upright. Archer, for his own amusment (apparently), listened to her, putting his glass on the bedside table and then lying down on the bed.

Thank fuck for mandatory first-aid training in ISIS -- Lana knew exactly what she was looking for. Well… mostly. There wasn’t much you could do for ribs. She awkwardly knelt beside him, leaning forward to compensate for baby, pulling his arms into a T-position to check the four quadrants of his chest. She tried not to look at his smarmy, smug, snakey (gorgeous) face as she started prodding at the upper left quadrant, the tips of her fingers skirting around the edge of the bruising. Still… she didn’t stop him when his hand slipped behind the fold of her knee, his fingers curling around her calf muscle, warm and kinda weird. She was going with weird.

“Ow Lana.” She stopped where she was pushing further down his ribs, to press her fingers back against the spot eliciting a reaction from him. “I said _ow_ , woman.” They didn’t seem broken, maybe a little weakened, cracked, definitely swollen. Probably just needed to be iced. She poked and prodded at his chest until she had more or less determined that he wasn’t going to end up with a perforated lung. She would be so lucky.

“I think you might’ve cracked your third rib but as long as you aren’t rolling Jeeps or fighting the Brotherhood or whatever, you’ll be back to normal in no time, Wolverine.” 

“I told you I would be, you... Jean Grey,” he quipped, sitting upright beside her. His hands went behind his back, propping himself upright. She took stock of his open wounds, noting that the asshole hadn’t even bothered to clean them. The gash on his cheek had gone puffy and red, likely a little infected. Idiot. It was like he just didn’t care.

Lana frowned as she pulled out the saline, antibacterial cream, alcohol wipes, butterfly bandages and some gauze, setting them evenly on a sterile gauze pad beside him. She crossed her legs lotus style, sitting knee to knee with him so that she could get close enough. Focusing on her task, Lana took the small bottle of saline and brought the gauze up to Archer’s cheek, dripping the saline into the wound and catching the spillage with the gauze. He seemed way too amused watching her, the dick, his eyes following every move of her hands, crossing as they got closer to his face.

She didn’t even know where to start. With talking to him, that is. Telling him she cared. Fuck, she couldn’t even admit she liked him on the best of days ( _did_ she even like him?). She cleared her throat uncomfortably, dabbing the wound with the gauze gently before she pulled it away. She picked up the alcohol wipes next, discarding the dirtied gauze as well as the packaging in the trash bin next to his bed. Her eyes darted back to his face as she started using the wipes, noting that he winced a bit at the sting. Pussy.

“So I’m going to assume that Krieger replaced you with an fembot, due to the lack of pregnant bitchiness emanating from you at this particular moment. You’re acting really weird, Lana.”

“I just…” She stopped herself, hand falling into her lap for a moment, at a loss, before she forced herself to continue her care. “You guys were gone for days, nobody was responding to any of my calls, any of Malory’s calls, we just kept getting your shitty asshole voicemail (asshole), you might have been dead for all we knew. We _thought_ you were dead. I-- we were... worried.”

“Worried. Right.”

Lana rolled her eyes, tossing the wipes and picking up the antibacterial cream. She indelicately squelched it onto his face, making him laugh at the noise, and she couldn’t help but smirk as he winced, her fingers spreading it over the injury. Butterfly bandages came next, as she used them to pull the cut closed. 

“But seriously,” she said, taking his forearm in hand to lay it flat over her knee, palm-up. “I have never, in my life, seen Malory that freaked out. She came to me crying, Archer. _Crying_. And literally, I shit you not, she _begged_ me to go find you.”

“Mother. Crying. And begging! Right.”

Lana sat back on her knees, holding his gaze, trying to show him the urgency she felt with her eyes. “I’m not kidding. She was scared, Archer. She thought she was going to lose you.”

Archer’s eyes softened, and he looked away from Lana. She busied herself for a moment, rinsing out the gash on his arm with saline, using the alcohol wipes. They sat there in silence, Lana working away, and it was evident that Archer was actually mulling it over. 

“...Seriously? Mother?” he said, quietly, eyebrows furrowed in disbelief. Like he was a little afraid to actually find out that she’d shown that type of emotion. Then again, if he acknowledged it, Malory could deny it. If it was out there, it could be taken away. 

“Yeah, Archer. Malory.” Lana took a smaller piece of gauze and placed it over the cleaned wound, taking some of the elastic bandaging to wrap it. Archer lifted his arm to allow her to wrap the bandaging, helping her a bit when her belly got in the way of her reach. “And, uh… me too, I guess. I was, um, kinda... scared.”

He snorted in disbelief. “Scared you wouldn’t get to kill me yourself?”

“Shut up. Ass.” Lana sighed, tucking the end of the elastic bandage into one of the folds to seal it off. She looked back up at his face, and he seemed a little bit volatile, a little bit unsure. Maybe a bit hopeful. Maybe. “But… seriously, Archer. If something happens to you on a mission, or if you just die off in the jungle, you won’t get to meet baby when sh-- it’s born.” 

“... _Shit’s_ born? You’re naming your baby Shit? That’s racist, Lana.”

“Fuck off! Seriously. Being serious. I know that’s hard for you.” 

“Phrasing.”

“Shut up.” She took a deep breath, sliding her hand down his forearm to take his hand. “It’s… important to me. That you’re here. When I have my baby. I want you to be here.”

He looked down where their hands were joined, curling his fingers tightly around her palm, and Lana squeezed his palm for good measure. Fuck, her heart was beating so hard that she thought her veins were going to explode out of her neck. She had a hard time admitting her feelings, but despite that, the awestruck look on his face was worth it. She’d never really known how much she wanted that.

“We’re friends--”

“I would even say _best_ friends, Lana.”

“Right. Best friends. You 12 year old schoolgirl, you,” she said. Sarcasm was her wall, her protector. There was affection there, too, though, that she couldn’t hide. 

Still… he needed to hear it straight. “I... care about you, dickhead. I ne-- want you around. I want you to meet my baby. So... please, _please_ , don’t fuck off and die a jungle-y death.”

“Okay,” he said, simply, offering her a crooked smile. 

“Okay,” she echoed, her hand flying out of his. Like the longer she held on, the more that she’d have to face her feelings. Her awful, awful feelings. God, she hated how much she cared about him sometimes. Most times. 

Lana scooched off the bed, busying herself with cleaning up the first aid kit. Archer followed her off, tripping over the blankets in the process, catching himself to pick up his glass on the end table, then padding over to the record player. He fucked around with a few records before deciding on Billie Holiday, then wandered back to his seat at the desk, pouring himself another drink. Lana decided that the bed was comfortable for now (she was exhausted, that was her excuse), making herself a little pillow fortress, and pulling the blankets up over her legs. She could feel her body start to settle there, and even though the sheets smelled like Archer, well, it was still a bed. A nice smelling bed. Ugh.

“Well I’m glad you weren’t a rapist. I doubt a rapist would’ve had consensual... enough… uh, hands to be able to wrap a bandage this tightly and/or symmetrically. So, yeah, thanks,” said Archer, before taking a sip from his glass. He turned in the seat to pick up the slide of his handgun, tightfisted around it as he refocused himself on his task. Maybe Lana’s emotions had overwhelmed him a little, because he couldn’t seem to look at her. Shit, they overwhelmed her too, because she felt tense as all hell, feigning casual, propped up in his bed.

“How do you know I’m not a rapist? Maybe I’m undercover.”

“Is that supposed to be a pun, seeing as how you’re becoming one with my bed?” 

“Under covers. You’re funny.”

“Laugh it up, Lana.”

“I am.” She smiled, uneasily, but she understood what Archer was trying to do. Diffuse the situation a bit, get back into the status quo of their picking at each other and arguing instead of acknowledging the ever-present feelings-y elephant in the room. Neither of them were particularly gifted when it came to talking about their emotions. Still, they’d gotten somewhere tonight, and maybe that was why Lana felt a weird sense of relief, despite the unresolved tightness in her chest.

Her eyes felt heavy. She yawned, before gesturing to the near-emptied first aid kit where it had been left on the end table. “There’s an instant ice pack in there, just FYI. You should use it. On your hamburger chest.”

“I probably don’t need it. Like I said, Lana. Wolverine.”

“I don’t think yellow spandex is really your thing, buddy,” she joked, reaching over to procure the ice pack herself. She snapped the pack triggering the chemical reaction, before throwing it at him, hitting him (hard) in the back of the head. He started, his hand grabbing his skull, giving Lana a dirty look as he reached down to pick it up. Well that was satisfying, at least. He grabbed a spare cloth that was (mostly) clean from his gun kit, using it to wrap the pack before bringing it to his chest. At least he listened sometimes.

Lana sat back into her pillows, watching him polish his gun. When he cared about something, when he was motivated, he could really be quite meticulous. OCD level meticulous. Her eyes scanned over to the medical books (why did he have those anyway), before she was shunted out of her stream of thought, baby’s itty bitty hands and feet pushing weird shapes on the outside of her stomach. “Oh… hey. Kicking! I mean, the baby. Is kicking. If you want to... feel.”

It was... weird (she was still going with weird) how quickly he spun around, interest clearly piqued by the tell-tale rise of his eyebrows. She slid herself close enough to the edge of the bed that neither of them had to move particularly far. Lana pulled her nightgown up to reveal her stomach, covering from her hips down with the blankets. Nothing he hadn’t seen anyway (although luckily, she’d had time to get waxed this time). She pointed out where baby’s little hands and feet were clearly pressing through, weird little sea-monkey outlines on her skin. “I’m pretty sure that’s a foot.”

“Jesus, Lana. Can we call your baby Chestburster?” 

“Only if you learn anatomy first, fuckhead, because that is _clearly_ not my chest.”

Archer scoffed, leaning forward to poke a finger at the little foot outline. “Alien baby. What does it feel like?”

“Well, at this point, kinda uncomfortable. Especially when baby practices Krav Maga with my intestines, yeah, uh, that sucks. But I dunno.” She sighed, her eyes starting to feel a little stingy. Stop that. “It’s kinda… nice to have someone riding shotgun. Like I’m never alone. I think baby can tell if I’m sad, there’s more movement then.”

“You’ve been sad a lot?” he said, still watching the movement in her stomach. His voice sounded curious, searching and concerned, but she knew he had a joke loaded and ready to go if she answered too honestly.

“I’ve just been dealing with... a lot. And also pregnancy hormones.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Shut up. But, uh, yeah… sometimes it does feel like I have a chestburster. And I mean it’s not gonna be that much longer before baby comes out in all of its gory, cunt ripping disgustingness--”

“Ew, gross. Mental image, Lana.”

“--Grow up, but I mean, childbirth isn’t exactly like, pretty or anything.”

“If you shit yourself in labor, I swear that I totally won’t make fun of you for the rest of your entire life.”

“You are _such_ a dick,” she laughed, her face heating a bit. He flicked his eyes to her face, smirking back, as baby pushed a little hand up against her stomach. He touched his finger there, meeting the hand, and baby pushed her skin out a bit more. Fuck, could she recognize him? Maybe by the sound of his voice. 

Fuck it goddamnit fuck. That wasn’t fair, it was way too cute. Archer wasn’t supposed to be cute. Archer wasn’t supposed to be doing cute, endearing things, like pressing his palm flat against her belly, or asking her if she was sad, or looking at her face to make sure she was watching him. Not fucking fair. 

Ugh and the worst part of it all was his touch was making heat shoot through her pelvis and up her chest. She felt hot, felt flushed, it was too much. She grabbed his wrist and pulled him gently away. He looked a bit disappointed, but leaned back, quickly hiding his expression as he picked up the slide of his gun once more.

Lana retreated back against the pillows, pulling the blankets up over her arms and shoulders, succumbing to her little fortress. Her nightgown was still rucked up, so she slid her hands over her naked, protruding stomach protectively. Baby rolled around, as if asking where her dad had gone. Fucking fuck shit. Come on, baby... super not fair.

“...So if you had a superpower, like I do, Lana, what would it be,” said Archer, maybe going out of his way a bit to diffuse the tension. He had to feel it too. Had to. He kept his back to her.

“I don’t know. The power to annoy you to death with my mind.”

“That’s like… the worst superpower ever.”

“You’re the worst superpower… no, that’s Russia... whatever… it’s late,” she snarked, her hands slipping subconsciously further down her belly. Her right hand shifted between her legs, her fingers pushing flat and hard up against her panties, just for a bit of relief. She wasn’t going to do anything. It was comfortable. She wasn’t doing anything wrong. She was just so fucking horny, and it didn’t help that the object of her affections was sitting a little more than a foot away from her. She steadily inhaled through her nose. “What about you? Aside from… your Wolverine-ness.”

“Probably Mystique powers.”

“...What?”

“Shapeshifting, Lana! Come on, keep up.”

“And… why’s that,” she hummed, starting to feel more relaxed. Her fingers moved steadily back and forth, and she spread her legs a little wider. She slid her hand down further, cupping her palm over the warmth of her sex. That felt good. Yeah, okay, she was horny and kind of masturbating in her ex-boyfriend’s bed, with said ex-boyfriend sitting a foot away. He didn’t know, anyway, and it wasn’t like she wasn’t hurting anyone (but herself). He didn’t have to know. 

Archer’s shoulders shrugged, and he picked up some gun oil just out of Lana’s line of sight. She closed her eyes. “Being able to turn into a chick for awhile would be pretty awesome.”

Lana scoffed, pushing her panties out of the way to get her first two fingers on her clit. God, she knew she shouldn’t be doing this. She was already slick, hypersensitive and fully aroused, and even the barest of touches sent shivers down her neck. “You’d just want to be a girl so you can experience being gang banged or… something. It’s not as fun as it sounds.” She sucked her lips into her mouth, then, biting them to keep herself quiet. She was so, so tempted to moan out of relief. It just felt good. Better than doing it with only herself. God, she wanted him to touch her.

“What, being gang banged? You wanna tell me something, Lana?”

“N-no, not that... idiot… being a girl.”

“Yeah, I mean menstruating doesn’t sound like a lot of fun, shit knows I had to listen to you gripe and moan about cramps and… blood clots, ew, for days on end.” He paused, thoughtfully, clicking parts of his gun back together. “But experiencing period sex first hand… hm. Might be interesting.”

“Gross.”

“Grow up, Lana. It’s a natural biological function!”

“Still. Gross,” she returned, weakly, not really all that focused on the conversation anymore. Fuck it was testament to how desperate she was, how turned on just hearing him talk about anything made her, she was so wet to the point where moving her fingers was barely enough friction. Still, it was enough that she could feel her muscles tighten, her pussy clench out of desperation. Could she come without making a sound? She closed her mouth again, inhaling slowly through her nostrils. 

“You didn’t complain before,” he snarked, racking the slide of his gun, testing its functionality. Seemed he was finished cleaning it. Had it been that much time? Weird. Lana sighed gently, her fingers moving a little faster and with more pressure. She was so close.

The fan whirred back and forth. Billie Holiday crooned about forgotten love.

“...Lana. Are you touching yourself?”

He didn’t turn around.

She opened one of her eyes, the barest amount, fixated on him. She didn’t stop her hand. So, okay, maybe she wanted him to find out a little bit. Wanted to push his buttons. “...Noooo. I would… never… do that.”

He laughed, low and breathy. “Stupid, it’s like you think that after all these years I wouldn’t recognize those hot little moans you make or how you go all quiet when you’re close. It’s okay. Keep going, Lana.” 

Archer started to shift in his chair, but Lana started, “Wait! Just… don’t turn around.”

“Come on, Lana.”

“Just… don’t. I’ll only keep going if you don’t.”

He stopped, turning decidedly back to the wall. “...Okay.” Lana let her eyes gradually open, observing the stiff set of his back, the tension in his shoulders. He was forcing himself to stay, ass firmly in his chair. It was an incredible feat of self-control, for him. He wanted to join her. She wanted him there too but… for her own sake, and for baby’s sake, she just couldn’t let him cross that line. Not yet. He wasn’t ready. Neither was she.

Lana sharply inhaled, letting her knees fall wider apart, as secrecy didn’t matter anymore. Her fingers mercilessly bullied her clit, not caring so much about finesse, just trying to come, she was close enough that it wouldn’t take much to push her over. 

“ _Fuck_ , Lana,” he muttered, his voice gone a little rough. He picked up his glass, taking a drink (something to do with his hands), his other hand disappearing out of Lana’s sight, (hand likely pressing against his cock, releasing some of the ache, she imagined). It helped her along to imagine him. God she was so close. He uncrossed his legs, the sound of chafing fabric deafening to her. 

Lana couldn’t help but make little noises as the tension finally came to a head, her body shaking, searing and taught. Finally, it was enough, pleasure crawling up her spine, coming in her panties, dead silent save for her gasping as she rode her orgasm through. Archer made a weak sound nearby, his hands white-knuckling the edge of the desk, desperate to watch. She caught him looking, biting his lip. She’d let him have a little, that was enough.

She breathed just for a few moments then, starting to feel more relaxed, sinking into the cushy, welcoming pillows. She was so tired. Lana pulled her hands out of her panties, the silky fabric sticking to her skin, damp and warm. She let the covers come down a little bit under her breasts, pulling herself more upright, hands pushing her hair out of her face. 

“I have literally, _literally_ , never been more aroused by you than I am at this very second,” Archer said, breathing heavier than usual. “That wasn’t fucking fair, Lana.”

“Life isn’t fair, buddy. And hey! Ouch.”

“ _What?_ ”

“I’m pretty sure I was way more arousing before I became a part-woman part-manatee hybrid mutant baby house… thing… uh--”

“Lana, fuck off. You _know_ how much I want you.”

She had no response to that. Just a weird fluttery feeling in her stomach.

Archer turned to face her, finally, boring a hole right through her. Her gaze flicked down to his groin, him rock hard, straining, his chest rising and falling at an accelerated rate. Lana licked her lips, offered him a tiny smile, before she slipped her legs out from under the covers. She stood up, her dressing gown falling back down to cover her hips and the tops of her thighs. He watched her every move, as she started to bend down to pick up her robe. He leaned down, picking it up for her, standing to help her put it on. She rolled her eyes, but humored him, letting him guide her arms into the sleeves. Some gentleman.

Lana turned in his hold, facing him as he tied the robe at the front for her, his frustration evident in the furrow his brow. He let his hands slide down to her hips, holding her there, inches away from his chest. Too close.

“Thanks,” she said, softly. “I gotta go.”

“You’re really going to leave. Now. Really.”

“Really.”

She sighed, fondly-- it really just wasn’t fair. He looked a little bit sad, but at the same time, there was lightness there. Like maybe he’d just realized something. Maybe, she hoped, he did. He could have this. He could have all of this, if he just fucking… grew up. Or something. (Stopped drinking.)

“You should stay. If you stay I promise not to try to have sex with you,” he said, unable to hide the tell-tale smile (fucking liar), “Actually I can’t promise that, I’m lying, if you stayed I’d probably fuck you so hard that it would be insensitive.”

“Um.”

“To the baby.”

“Okay.”

“I mean, I don’t know where its head is but I can’t imagine it would be like, awesome or whatever to have this massive--”

“Haaaa.”

“--Shut up, thing jabbing at you... that way. And, to tell you the truth… I’m not really sure that’s the first impression I want to make. I guess we could do anal, though, I mean… if you’re up for it.”

Yeah… he was never, _ever_ going to grow up.

“...Bye asshole.”

“Come on, Lana,” he said, still grinning, reaching out to grab her hand as she turned to walk out the door. “I’m just being shitty. Sorry. Thanks for hanging out tonight. I, uh… appreciate it. Really.”

Lana sort of couldn’t help but smile. His fingers were warm, and it was way too easy to be charmed by him. Way too easy. She needed to keep it together. 

“And also thanks for being my own personal Clara Barton.”

“...Oh?”

“She was a nurse, and also the founder of the American Red Cross, Lana. Jesus, read a book.”

“I’m going now.”

“Gone and leaving me only with the bed you… tainted. With pregnant hormones. And masturbation. Where I am going to lay with the bluest of blue balls for the remainder of the night, thinking about you playing with your clit and those sexy little noises you make.”

“Good for you, buddy.”

“Tainted, Lana!”

She started to walk away. 

“Lana.”

Kept walking.

“Lana.”

Nope. Fucking nope if he yelled she would--

“ _Lana!_ ”

She stopped. “ _What,_ Archer! God, eat a dick.” 

The hallways echoed, he was _so noisy_ and she swore to fuck if he woke Malory up...

“...Good night, Lana.”

She groaned, looking over her shoulder to glare at him. “Good night, Archer.”

He laughed, childishly, disappearing behind his door, slamming it noisily shut. Fucker. 

“You… literal piece of human garbage,” Lana finished, quietly, mostly to herself. She forced her feet to keep moving. “Why am I so stupid...”

She closed her eyes tightly, fists clenched, silently screaming in a high pitched, dog-whistle-y tone. God, she hated herself for having entirely no self control when it came to him. What in the hell was wrong with her? Masturbating? In his bed? To teach him a lesson? Letting him get to her that way? 

Okay so maybe she kind of maybe sort of kind of loved him a little teensy bit.

No shut up she totally didn’t love his stupid, stupid, stupid, _stupid_ beautiful face.

Lana whined, bringing up her hands to clutch her forehead. This just wasn’t fair. Then again, okay, maybe it wasn’t the smartest thing to have his baby in the first place. It wasn’t like having a tiny, living reminder of him all the time would make her want him any less. Maybe she was just doing this to herself. Maybe she was a little bit of a masochist. Or yeah she was delusional and she totally fucking _loved_ that stupid asshole and wanted to have his stupid asshole babies.

She let out a small sad noise, in the midst of some sort of mental breakdown.

“Cherlene! Goddamnit, would ya stop making dinosaur noises in the hallway!? Shit’s disturbing,” came Pam’s echoey, sleep-deprived voice, further up the hall. A door slammed shut soon after.

“Sorry,” muttered Lana. Woops. At least nobody recognized it was her. 

Another door opened downstairs, and Krieger’s voice spilled out, “No, don’t stop! I’m almost finished... things.”

Did anyone sleep in this shit hole? 

“Ugh, would everyone _please_ stop calling my house a hole! It is the opposite of a hole. It goes up! Geography, _duh!_ ”

“Cherlene, you’re hearing voices again. You should go back to sleep.” Cyril? Why was his voice coming from Ray’s room?

“ _You’re not my supervisor!_ ”

Slamming doors.

Lana sighed. Well, at least she wasn’t alone in her general insanity (she had to be insane…. had to be). Maybe she really was no better than these assholes. Maybe that was why, no matter how she rationalized it and excused it, she couldn’t leave these terrible people. She was just as terrible. She needed them, in all of their horribleness. Who was going to babysit otherwise?

Well… not Cherlene. That was for fucking sure. 

Lana padded off to bed, smiling a bit, despite her little meltdown. Maybe things weren’t completely fucked. Maybe she could make this work. Keyword: maybe.

(And Archer, for his part, went to sleep without pouring himself a second [or third, or fourth, etcetera forever] pre-bed drink.)

(Small miracles.)

(Keyword: small.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I'm sorry guys, they're not gonna full on fuck for awhile here. As much as I'd like to write them boning. Anyhow, let me know what you think and as always, I get a hard-on for constructive criticism and compliments. Next time we get some Cyril (he was mentioned for the first time here), and I think maybe one or two more chapters max before we reach the end of this fic... and I can move into new territory, where I'm not working directly with the canon, and can do whatever the hell I want with these horrible people. Ehehe.
> 
> Thanks to Syd for letting me ramble at you for hours and for helping with my characterization. It's hard to make these bastards nice. Couldn't do this without you.
> 
> As always, hit me up at highandholy.tumblr.com if you want to harass me for updates or tell me I'm pretty or whatever. 
> 
> Enjoy.


	7. Miserable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lana comes to some realizations, and goes to retrieve her man.
> 
> Takes place mostly in flashback, and then during S05 E012 Filibuster towards the end.
> 
> Warnings for period sex, abortion jokes, and some pretty dark humor. Oh, and Cyril being a bit shitty.

“So… hey.”

“What, Lana? Can this wait? I’m kinda, uh, busy.”

“This is pretty important.”

“Gimme a sec.”

Lana heard him put down the phone, followed by what sounded like a lot of gunfire and screaming. She was not in the slightest bit surprised. Most of his covert missions ended up with excessive amounts of violence, he was literally the worst secret agent ever. Okay, not _worst_ , just the laziest, probably. 

The noises stopped, and she heard his footsteps, followed by rustling. “Okay back. What, Lana?”

“You remember a couple weeks ago, that time when you were a lying asshole--”

“That could be like… probably twenty different things. At least. You have to specify.” He yelled sharply, then there was a loud thump, Lana pulling the phone away from her ear with a wince. “Also funny story, getting stabbed hurts. Okay, continue.”

“--when you pretended to use a condom but instead, asshole, were eating a _goddamn candy bar._ ”

“I did that? Wait, yeah, that sounds like something I would do. What about it?”

Lana sighed, her fingers gripping her temples. He was such an idiot. 

“...Use your brain.”

“My brain is currently focused on not getting shot.” He was breathing hard, running. Stealth was clearly not his strong point. “No need to get all passive-aggressive, Lana.”

“I’m late, idiot.”

“...So? Isn’t that normal, or whatever? You’re always all freaked out every time you’re about to get your fucking period. Calm down.”

“Like at least six days late. I’m starting to get really stressed, so I’d appreciate it if you could take this seriously, ass.”

“Well have you taken a pregnancy test?” More shooting. She held the phone pointedly away from her ear. A door slammed in the background, the sound of a car starting. 

“...No, uh, not yet.” 

“Because that would be the logical next step, Lana. Logically. So… do that. I thought you were on birth control, anyway?”

“Didn’t I tell you like twenty times I had to stop taking it _literally almost a year ago_ because the hormones were turning me into a raging hell bitch?”

“I thought that was just, like, your default state. You still seem pretty hell bitchy, Lana.”

“You--”

“I’m kidding. Look, I’m just trying to help you relax, make you laugh or whatever.”

“By calling me a bitch?”

“It’s funny.”

“...Ugh.

“Look, don’t do that thing where you get all worked up and lose your shit over nothing. You don’t know anything for sure y--” 

The phone had clearly been dropped, and Lana frowned, listening to the ensuing scuffle. The sound of horns honking and tires squealing was evident, but the phone was picked up again soon after. “...I was saying, before I was so _rudely_ interrupted. You don’t know anything for sure yet, Lana. Pick up a test, and then whatever happens, we can figure it out from there or whatever, together, okay?”

She sniffed. “You’re right.”

“Oh my God, can you say that again so I can record it? This is like discovering a unicorn.”

“I hate you.”

“I’ll see you in a couple hours, okay? I have people to kill.”

Lana hung up the phone. Damn her traitorous uterus. And lying piece of shit boyfriend. This just wasn’t fair. She sighed, emotionally preparing herself for an embarrassing trip to the drug store. 

The completed test sat on the counter staring her down until Archer showed up at her place later, sporting a relatively impressive bruise on his jaw, stitches, and a misshapen plastic bag.

“What is that?” she asked, flatly. “What do you have?”

“Coathangers,” he explained, “I know you only have those expensive wooden ones, so I figured--”

He quickly acquired an even more impressive bruise on the other side of his face. “Jesus _Christ_ woman, it was a joke!” 

“Fuck you!” She slapped him again for good measure, but he was laughing already, tossing the bag to the side. “You insensitive piece of shit. What kind of joke is that?”

“A funny one. Something in the realm of a dead baby joke, I guess. I give it a B+ for effort, I had to go off my usual route to pick these up. Not bad, Archer.”

“Get out.”

“Lana, _come on_ , I was just kidding. Trying to find a little humor in the situation?”

“I took the test,” she blurted, face feeling hot. 

He looked at her, smile wiped clean off his face. He looked scared. “And?”

Lana stalked over to the kitchen counter, gestured towards it. He stared at the pregnancy test suspiciously, leaning down to get a closer look. “So… what does that mean.”

“If I’m, um, pregnant it’s two solid lines. Not pregnant, one.”

“So I’m guessing one solid line and one _less_ solid line means you’re, what, like... half-pregnant? Your uterus needs a democratic vote to lean one way or the other?”

“No, you dumbshit!” she snapped, smacking him again. He winced, shoving her arms away, but he didn’t let her go, pulling her against him. Holding her. Lana was aware she was shaking a bit. Goddamnit. “...It just means inconclusive.”

“Nothing a good ‘trip’ down the stairs won’t fix, Lana.”

“Can you stop making jokes about violently aborting our possibly somewhat less than hypothetical child? Fuck.”

Archer smiled, pushed his face into her shoulder, breath warm against her neck. “Lana, come on. I’m _sorry_. Usually you’d laugh, these are like, A-level jokes.” She looked at him, skeptical. “B+ then. Not my best day. Anyway, you should probably try taking another test.”

“Ugh, I’m going to shower first. I just want to clear my mind.”

“I know a pretty good trick to help with that.”

“Oh do you?”

“Yes. It’s called the giving of gratuitous orgasms, Lana. So… you should probably get naked. For the gratuitousness.”

It wasn’t until later, Lana riding him in bed, still wet from the shower that Archer started laughing, holding onto her ass while pushing up into her. “So… I have a little good news, and a little bad news.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” she said, breathlessly, hands planted on his shoulders, eyes closed as she rolled her hips.

“Good news is you’re not pregnant.” Lana scowled, opening her eyes. “...Bad news, you are going to need new 1500 thread count white Egyptian cotton sheets, Lana. Or at least a shit ton of bleach.”

“ _Oh my God_.” She attempted to get off of him, embarrassed, there was so much blood. How long had he let her keep going? Before she could straighten, he grabbed her roughly by the midsection, pulled her down so they were chest to chest, arms around her back, still fucking steadily into her.

“Whatever, Lana, don’t, mm, worry about it, too late now anyway. This feels nice.”

“You’re disgusting,” she muttered, nose bumping against his, and he smiled, pulling her down for a kiss. 

After, Lana scurried off to the bathroom to clean up. The sheets were more or less garbage, ripped off the bed and out of sight. She stood in the shower, staring down at the pinkish water, not really sure quite how she felt about the multitude of events that had just occurred. 

She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was maybe just a little teensy disappointed. Shit.

\---

They just laid there, for a moment, before he rose up onto his shaky elbows and rolled off to the side. Lana sat upright, located the bottle of vodka on the side table and took a good swig. She needed it. God this was weird. He had _cancer_. And they’d almost had sex.

Archer was _just_ shitfaced, drunker than Lana had ever seen him. He looked miserable, his hair ruffled up, probably a little embarrassed because he couldn’t stay hard. Lana coughed over her shoulder, throat impossibly dry, passed him the bottle. 

“I swear this totally never happens,” he said, after a moment of silence between them. Lana looked over, accepting the bottle as he passed it back. His eyes were red, he wouldn’t look at her. 

“Archer…” she murmured, not really sure what to say to him. Lana felt useless, unable to really do anything that would make it better. There was nothing that could make it better.

There was a part of her (the part that wasn’t drunk yet, anyway) that recognized how afraid he was. He couldn’t spit out that he needed her, that he was fucking terrified. And maybe it wasn’t dying that made him afraid, necessarily.

But… cancer was something that he couldn’t kill, couldn’t blow up, couldn’t reduce to an offhanded joke and proceed to completely forget about. It wasn’t something he could control, or something he could change. Maybe that was what scared him.

He flopped back down on the bed, hands pulling up into his hair then dropping back to the bed with frustration. Lana looked at the clock next to them. It was already 3AM. Shit, he had to be up in three hours. For surgery. Jesus.

She slid down next to him, keeping her distance, unsure of what to do. He wasn’t the type of man to cry (much) or outwardly show he was hurting, tended to take out his emotions on others or pull away into a self-destructive drinking binge. She’d been honestly a little surprised he’d asked her to stay. _Lana, I’m in love with you_.

God, she didn’t even want to touch that.

His hand was next to hers, and Lana cautiously slid her palm nearby, budged the edge of his little finger with her own. She turned to look at him, but he was still hiding his face. “Talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. I’m gonna die tomorrow, and I’m an asshole.”

She rolled her eyes, turned on her side, breasts pressed up against his arm. “You’re not going to die.” Her hand slid over his chest. “But, yeah, you are an asshole.”

He laughed a little, but it sounded sad, and Lana felt her heart drop. She had no idea what to do with an Archer that wasn’t frontloaded with jokes and bile. Pretty much through their entire relationship he’d kept that giant defensive wall up, and it was strange to see it dropping down more often now that they were… well, Lana didn’t even know what the hell they were. Coworkers? Friends? Two terrible mutually codependent people forever consumed by each other’s endless ongoing drama? Ugh, that was depressing.

“I think... the worst part is that I’m gonna die alone, Lana.” 

“Hey, asshole, what am I, uh… smallpox blankets?”

“That was terrible.”

“Yeah, I’ve got nothing. Anyway, you’re not alone. I’m… here-ish. I mean, from all the vodka I had to drink to lower my self-esteem to the level it needed to be to hop back in bed with you, I’m a little, uh, _metaphorically_ gone.” 

“Thanks, that wasn’t, like, a huge blow to my already profound sense of crippling self-loathing.”

“Shut up. I’m here, aren’t I? We totally touched genitals and everything, too. That counts for something.” She was trying to be funny, to help him cheer up. Keyword: trying.

Lana swallowed thickly, her eyes never leaving his face. He smiled a little despite himself, turning to look at her, finally. “I honestly kind of thought you’d tell me to fuck off when I asked you to stay, Lana.”

“Yeah, well, I was _about_ to fuck right off before you… y’know.”

“Yeah…”

They don’t talk about it, like they never do. 

“Anyway,” she said, “You’re not alone, stupid. I’m going to come with you to surgery tomorrow, and I’ll be there when you wake up, decidedly not dead. Because you’re gonna be fine.”

“But what if I’m _not_ fine, Lana! What if the cancer spreads, and I slowly rot from the inside after months and months of failed chemo and you hate me forever for _dying_ the pussiest way _ever_ , and we can’t get back together because I’m frickin’ _dead_ and being _dead_ means I can never figure out my shit enough to be the, um, not-asshole you… y’know, deserve, or whatever. Fuck. Shit. Jesus, fucking-- I _hate_ this.”

He made a strangled noise, hand covering his face again. “...And realistically, dying would probably be _just fucking great_ because then you’d finally be rid of me and you could get on with your miserable--”

“Hey!”

“--Lana, shut up, your miserable life. I _know_ you’d be happier without me.”

“Archer, we--” She stopped herself, collecting her rambling thoughts before she said something she couldn’t take back. Instead, she reached over to pull his shoulder, pulling him back to lay over her. Her hand wrapped around the back of his neck, hiding his face in the sensitive spot just below her ear. She shivered. His breathing was shaky, his hands holding her like he would fly apart if he let go.

“You and I...” she started, again, hand tangling up into his hair, “You drive me fucking crazy. Every Goddamn day. I’m not going to lie. But I just… can’t picture my life without you in it, idiot. Without you there to fuck up _literally everything_ , who else would I have to save?”

“It’s funny that you think _you’re_ the one doing the saving, because I seem to remember a lot of me coming to your oh-so-damsel-y rescue, a lot. Did I say _a lot_?”

“He said, pathetically, after his valiant reconnaissance by one Lana Kane from a drunken cancer cry-fest with his mother.”

“Point taken.”

“Thanks. _A lot_.”

“Ha ha, very funny, Lana.”

He shifted, put more of his weight onto her, Lana pulling up her knees to let him rest between her legs. It was weird, they hadn’t been in this position for almost two years, hadn’t touched this much, but she couldn’t help but feel it was natural to have him there. God, she hated herself sometimes. 

Her hands shifted further down his back, eventually to his hips. His mouth caught on her jaw, to the side of her mouth, and Lana found his lips for a kiss. They were clumsy, drunk, out of practice, and she couldn’t help the tight feeling in her chest as his hand curled around her neck. 

He was going to wake up in the morning and pretend like this never happened. Push it away, down, somewhere he didn’t have to deal with it. 

Soon, they weren’t really kissing, more just breathing into each other, his forehead pressing hard against hers, hands holding tight to her neck and shoulders. She locked her arms around him, holding him there, knowing he was losing it but too proud to let her know. 

“Archer, you’re going to be fine,” she reassured him, muffled by his close proximity, putting words to what she knew he couldn’t say out loud. “Come on. It’s okay.”

“Yeah, okay for _you_ , you’re not the one with a _tit tumor_.” He lifted his head and snorted, Lana looking at him, bemused. “Tit. Ha. Fuck, I’m drunk.”

“No shit,” she murmured, incredulously. “You should probably try to slee--”

“Lana, if I die tomorrow, I want you to know that Mother had me freeze a shit-ton of sperm at Dr. Feldman’s office. I just need you to know, uh, that. For reasons.” 

Lana stared up at him, gobsmacked.

“Wait, what?”

“I’m serious. If this cancer kills me, and you’re still predictably single, childless and lonely in a few years, I totally give you my express permission to have my future bastard child. Mother will _hate_ it.”

“... _Why_? Why would you say that. _Get off of me_.”

She tried to push him off, but it was halfhearted at best, more of a need to run away from what she’d been denying to herself since that pregnancy scare years ago. Oh God. She did not want to open this metaphorical Pandora’s box of _shit_.

“Lana, stop it.” He caged her in with his arms, Lana feeling like she was about to crawl into herself and die. “Don’t hide from me. I know you want a baby. And I mean, let’s face it, you and I would make a pretty awesome kid.”

“I--”

“You also know that I won’t remember _any of this_ tomorrow, so cut the shit and be honest with yourself. Have my dead baby. I know you want to.”

“...Your dead baby.”

“Well, the baby isn’t dead. I mean, hopefully it isn’t dead because the idea of you having a stillborn is…” He trailed off for a minute, and Lana stared at him with horror. 

“Oh my Go--”

“--I mean me being dead. Because I'm going to die. From cancer. _Of the breast_ , Lana.”

She sighed. “...I hate you.”

“Luckily, I hate me too, so we’re both on the same page, for once.” 

“ _Shitass_.”

“Right?” He chuckled, sliding down to push his face into the comfort of her breasts. Her hands found his hair, brushing it back off his face, petting him like the big, dumb, sad child that he was. It didn’t take long for him to fall asleep (or pass out, rather), but Lana laid awake for much longer, adrenaline racing through her.

If he didn’t die, she was going to kill him herself. 

If he died... 

Lana closed her eyes and tried not to think about it. Shit.

\---

_“Please, if you really cared, you'd resign, but there's no way you ever will, because you're just counting the days until, her face bloated and yellow from liver failure, she calls you to her death bed and, in a croaky whisper, explains that Mr. Archer is totally incompetent and that you, the long-suffering Lana Kane, are the only one qualified to run ISIS and you weep shameful tears because you know this terrible place is the only true love you will ever know.”_

Lana went home from work early after Cheryl’s stunningly honest verbal beatdown, and promptly got _completely fucking trashed_.

She spent an ample amount of time glaring at herself in the mirror, seriously debating throwing herself off the balcony or calling up Cyril for a pity fuck, but at the end of it she slid down against the bathroom wall and cried her eyes out. The type of ugly crying she rarely allowed herself, face puffy, snot trickling into her wide open mouth, hyperventilating as the fan hummed above her. God, she was hideous.

“She’s right. That _bitch_ , oh my God, _she’s fucking right_ ,” she moaned, before finishing off the last of the gin, then throwing it with all her might into the bathtub. It shattered, predictably, shards bouncing against the porcelain. 

The sound of glass breaking startled her out of her drunken revelrie, and she sniffed, wiped her nose, and stood up to her feet. She bent over the sink and washed her face, looked at herself in the mirror again. So fucking weak. So pathetic. Cheryl was right.

“Stop crying,” Lana told herself, hand tightening over the rim of the sink. “Stop fucking _crying_. You stupid, ugly _idiot_ , what’s _wrong_ with you?”

For starters, she wanted to be with her shitty ex-boyfriend who was so emotionally crippled he couldn’t tell her he loved her without the threat of a slow, horrible death. That was the first thing wrong.

She still worked at an awful organization that she _hated_ because horrible people or not, they were the only ones who even remotely acknowledged her existence. That was the second thing.

She wanted a baby _so badly_ it was eating her from the inside out. That was the _thing_.

Oh God. Oh _God_.

She started crying all over again, bowing over the sink. Her knees sagged out from under her as she fell back onto the floor, head knocking back against the wall. Her hands covered her eyes, keening into her pulled-up knees. 

She wanted a baby. 

She’d never really admitted it to herself up to that point, just how badly she wanted to be a mother. Maybe because her own parents did such a shit job, or because the idea of having an infant, so fragile and trusting, was just another thing she could completely fuck up in her life. She knew she’d be a terrible parent. A secret agent? Her hypothetical baby would turn out just like--

But… still, a child, her own child, was someone who would love her unequivocally. Someone she could love without fear of rejection. A baby needed her, couldn’t live without her. It was selfish, but... she sucked her lips into her mouth, lifting her head off her knees. No, she wasn’t married, wasn’t even in a relationship that made any sense (Cyril certainly didn’t count), couldn’t provide a stable home for a kid, but she knew that she had plenty of love to give. She’d certainly make a better mother than Malory.

She cringed, her thoughts floating back once again to that constant looming figure in her mind. Archer could never be a parent. No, she was crazy to even consider.

Still…

Her phone started ringing in the kitchen, and she shakily rose, padding to the next room to pick up her cell. “What? I mean, hi, uh, this is Lana.”

“Lana?” It was Cyril. “Hey, I just got back into town. I was figuring maybe I could come over, we could talk about the mission, have some dinner and um, some... y’know.”

“ _Wow_. ‘Y’know’? Are you a 12 year old schoolgirl? By ‘y’know’, you mean shameful, bareback, self-conscious fucking?” 

“I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t be so crass, Lana.”

“I would appreciate it if you would… um… _y’know_ …”

“...Are you drunk?’

“Mmmaybe.”

He chuckled on the other end. “That’s actually pretty cute.” She cringed, switching the phone to the other ear, trying to pull herself together. “But yeah, today was a _total_ shitstorm of um, _gerpgorkian_ proportions, so I don’t really feel like cooking. I’ll pick something up and come over, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, in a small voice.

“Alrighty! Be there in a jif!”

She hit the end button and stared at the backlit screen. “‘Alrighty’? ‘In a jif’? Did I fall into _Leave It to Beaver_? Ugh. Why, Lana. Why do you do this to yourself.”

The phone started ringing again and she picked it up without a second thought.

“ _What_ , Cyril?”

“You actually pick up the phone for him on the first ring? Impressive!” 

Archer. Goddamnit. 

“I meant impressively _pathetic_ , Lana.”

“Shut up. What do you want you, uh... ass… clown?”

“Wow, are you _drunk_? Actually I take that back, you’d _have_ to be drunk to start sleeping with him again. I also take that back, he actually did a less than shit job today, so uh, give him a pat on the back from me. Or a blowjob. But not from me, like, don’t tell him I said he did anything actually _right_. Keep that self-esteem low, that’s how you create a half-decent doormat.”

She sighed, wiping the mascara from under her eyes. Shit, she needed to sober up before Cyril got there. “Again, Archer, what do you want?”

“I don’t know. I’m bored.”

“You’re _bored_.”

He paused, she could hear him pouring a drink. “Actually not bored. I think… introspective and melancholy is a better way to put it.”

“Stop reading Nietzsche and take a Xanax, then, stupid.”

“I almost died today, Lana.”

“... _Again_? How?”

“Snake bit my taint. Don’t ask.”

“Okay. Not asking. Asking would imply I give a shit.”

Archer laughed. “You do give a shit. You give many shits. Don’t fool yourself. That’s why you picked up the phone.”

She scoffed. “Actually, I only picked it up because I thought you were Cyril calling me back.” 

“Lies, fairytales and fallacies, Lana. You’ll always pick it up for me. Always.”

“You idiot.” She didn’t deny it.

“Hey, on top of being shitfaced, you sound kinda sad. Probably because Mr. Disappointing is coming over, but if you want a _less_ useless dick up in your face, feel free to give me a call later and we can watch a movie and drink wine and stitch and bitch or whatever.”

“Asshole.”

“Goodnight, Lana.”

He hung up before she had the chance to respond. She pulled the phone away from her ear, scowling down at the screen as it faded to black. Lana flipped it shut, then banged it repeatedly against the kitchen counter until it exploded into tiny pieces, her hand cut from the impact. She sucked her fingers into her mouth, tasting blood, wobbling as she stood.

“Goddamnit.” That was the third phone that month.

She spent the next few days or so carefully turning over the idea of seriously, actually becoming pregnant. She thought about asking Ray, maybe, to impregnate her, and honestly it didn’t seem like a bad idea, at first. He was a fairly neutral party, had good genes. Still, Cyril would be upset, and things seemed to be going (mostly) okay with him, but did she really want to have _his_ kid? He’d likely use it as a point to gloat instead of actually parenting and Archer would probably actually _literally_ murder him if he discovered Cyril fathered her child. 

Archer.

He did have that sperm frozen... just sitting there, innocently, unguarded in that big jizz vault. She kept that filed in the back of her mind, an option, a maybe. If she had his kid, there was no way she’d _ever_ untangle herself from Malory’s awful, evil web of lies. Although… did she even want to? Could she, realistically?

It wasn’t until she fell twenty stories down from a building, Archer leaping to her rescue (as he usually did), Cyril violating her already fragile trust _again_ (as he usually did), that okay, yeah, she was destined to have Archer’s fucked the fucked up child. There was no other option. It was her shitty, shitty destiny to have his evil crotch dumpling. Maybe. Probably. God, she _hated_ herself. His DNA was going to give her an awesome kid, but he was just _the worst_.

No one could blame her for heading to Dr. Feldman’s office later that night, equipped with the bare minimum because, well, she hadn’t exactly been planning on it. Besides, his security was a _joke_ , at best, she basically walked in through the back door. The door alarm took but a few moments of puzzling. She tried ‘1111’ to humor herself (delighted when it did, indeed, work).

She went through the files to find out his ID number and picked up his samples without a hitch, depositing them safely in her freezer for when she decided to actually do it. She still had to work up the nerve.

With the knowledge that she had her ex-boyfriend’s sperm just sitting there, waiting for her when she was ready to face what it meant, Lana sat down on her couch, holding her breath as she opened the first pregnancy book she’d cautiously picked up a few days before. As much as she wanted to get pregnant, in her apprehension, she’d never actually… learned that much about what pregnancy entailed, aside from what she’d seen on TV. Pushed it away where she didn’t have to think about it. She barely had any female friends, let alone pregnant ones to share experience with her.

“Oh my God, you can actually tear from vag to asshole? Or they _cut you_? Wow. Seriously rethinking this right now. I should adopt,” she muttered to herself, forcing herself to flip to another diagram. “ _Uterine prolapse_!?” She slammed the book shut.

Her phone started ringing. She picked up on the second ring. “Talk to me.”

“How do you feel about Olivia Newton John.”

“I have… no feelings toward her. Why do you ask.”

“Because Krieger lent me _Xanadu_ after raving about it for a frickin’ year, and I’m not really sure anyone else would truly appreciate the virtue of Sandra Dee fucking around on roller-skates the way you would.”

“...You better bring wine. Expensive wine.”

“Consider it, um, brought-en? Brought. Brung. Be there in half an hour.”

“Whatever. Douche.”

He laughed on the other end, the line going dead. Lana hid the book in the depths of her bedroom closet, where he couldn't find it, and he showed up almost an hour later, just about shitfaced, shoving a VHS tape into her hands as he beelined to the kitchen to find wine glasses.

This had always been a thing they did, drunkenly bonded over a mutual love of pop culture and stupid B-movies, as much as Lana pretended that she wasn’t in on the joke to piss him off. She’d sat through every Burt Reynolds movie (and actually enjoyed half of them) because of him. He’d aggressively, nervously showed her everything he held dear, watching her reactions more than the movies, and while they were together, she’d paid attention, eager to see his eyes light up with excitement as he geeked out over her enjoyment.

They ended up on either end of the couch, pretending not to notice the, frankly, awkward amount of space between them. The elephant in the room, so to speak.

“So…” he started, the blue light from the TV washing over him. The shadows under his eyes were defined, he was tired, Lana sipping delicately at her wine glass as he poured himself a second (or third) drink. “Sorry about Cyril. Being Cyril. Seriously, that sucks a big one.”

She snorted. “You are _so_ far from sorry. Don’t bullshit me.”

“Yeah, I think I’m the one saying ‘I told you so’, for once. Bad decisions, Lana. Probably the worst decision you’ve ever made, and you’ve made some pretty damn terrible ones.”

“Shut up.” Despite herself, she couldn’t help but smile. He had _no idea_ about the extent of her terrible decisions. Even the ones yet-to-be made.

“Why did you even start dating him again? Virulent self-flagellation?”

“I don’t know,” she said into her wine glass, pointedly keeping her eyes on the TV. “Actually, he was a pretty good sub, if I’m going to be honest.”

“Gross. Ew, Lana. The mental image alone! Pass me the brain bleach, eugh.”

“Don’t be too jealous.”

“I am _not_ jealous.”

“Oh, you are _so_ jealous.”

“Shut up, stupid,” he laughed, tossing a throw pillow at her head. She swerved away, glass tipping almost precariously over. She’d literally kill him if he made her get any wine on her very expensive sofa.

They made fun of the movie together, Lana getting steadily drunker as the night wore on, loosening up, Archer slouched low on the couch with his shirt unbuttoned to his breast-bone. Lana kept sneaking glances at him, he was such a dick, but she knew he showed up because there was probably a tiny, sweet little part of him that knew she needed company after dumping Cyril (again). He’d never admit it, though. God, he would never admit it.

“--and why would the daughter of a freaking _God_ go to Earth just to inspire some schmuck to live out his shitty dreams of painting shitty paintings? Why wouldn’t she just paint them herself? She’s the daughter of a _God_! Has she no autonomy!? Why does she have ‘rules’? Shouldn’t she just, I don’t know, thug around, being the super hot daughter of a literal Grecian God and be badass and omniscient or whatever?” 

“Well, the definition of a muse is to inspire,” replied Lana, “Hence the name ‘muse’ and not ‘Olivia Newton-John, all powerful painting roller-skating goddess of supernatural pussy magnetism’. That’s what we women do in movies. We kickstart plots for dudes, either by dying, getting raped or y’know, supporting their fragile egos so that they can do the thing.” 

“The thing!”

“Yuuuup.”

“Have I told you lately how much I love, uh, that you don’t completely suck at being a useful human being? Aside from dropping off buildings, idiot, causing me to come _falling_ to your rescue, I remind you.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t know how to roller-skate anyway.” Lana polished off her wine, setting the glass down on the end table. “Or paint. Or do anything other than yell a lot and shoot people, I guess.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, you’re really good at yelling and shooting. Hence, y’know, my ever-worsening tinnitus. Seriously, we need to stop spending so much time together, Lana. It’s unhealthy.”

“Thank you for your vote of confidence.”

“My pleasure.”

“Dick.”

“Bitch.”

The credits started to roll. Archer poured off the couch, liquid and happy drunk, cheeks a little pink from the booze. He brushed his hair off his face, getting his jacket and keys together as Lana lingered by the door, watching.

“So hey, if I don’t hear from you tomorrow, I’ll have assumed you slit your wrists in the bathtub and bled out in your post-Cyril misery after not asking me for a pity fuck. So give me a call in the morning, okay? Get your beauty rest or whatever. A lot of it, because you kind of look like shit.”

“Thanks. Asshole.”

“Seriously Lana, you look just awful,” he said, before she shoved him out the door, slamming it in his face. She leaned against it, face in her cupped hands, unable to stop herself from hysterically laughing, tears pouring down her face. She knew. She just _knew_.

A few weeks later, she bit her lip staring down at a completed pregnancy test.

Two solid lines.

Lana didn’t know what to do other than laugh. 

_Shiiiit_. 

\---

Having spent the last three weeks holed up in a dictator’s mansion, Lana had more or less come to the realization that yes, she did love the boneheaded captive that happened to be the father of her child. She wanted to tell him, finally. Somehow. Maybe.

She’d had far too much time to herself, to muse upon the actions of one Sterling Archer, and Lana pieced together that he loved her as much as he was capable of loving her. He had no idea _how_ to love someone. Maybe, with a kid to (hopefully) care about, he could finally figure it out for himself, that love didn’t have to destroy him or everything he touched. She hoped. Desperately hoped.

It wasn’t exactly good enough, but it couldn’t count for nothing. It wasn’t really fair that he’d been locked up in a dungeon for the better part of a month, and Cyril’s little power trip was rapidly becoming real fucking old. Her due date was hastily approaching, anyhow, things were starting to get, well, real. Not to mention her belly had dropped, and she felt like a literal whale, pacing (she refused to call it waddling) back and forth most nights, Abijean busting out drum solos inside her.

Yeah, Abijean, the name she had landed on, a family name. She hated her family, but Abijean, Abi or AJ Kane sounded nice on her ears, if a little old-fashioned... or AJ Archer, shit, she needed to stop thinking about that. She wanted to tell him, wanted to be honest with him, because he was going to figure it out one day, anyhow. The Archer genes were strong, and he wasn’t a _complete_ idiot.

That was how she wound up at the door to Cyril’s oversized, lavish room, guard eyeing her suspiciously as she debated whether or not to knock. In the end, she did, Cyril poking his nose out at her as she stood there, mouth a flat line.

“Hi,” she said, hand resting precariously on her belly, “We need to talk.”

He looked down at her (frankly) ugly dress and sneered, opening the door to let her in. “So, Lana, come crawling back to me, begging your new dictator for forgiveness?” 

“Well, you are a dick.” 

“...Dic _tator_. Lana, that is no way to speak to a dictator! I demand respect!”

“Okay, look,” she started, one of her hands landing on his shoulder. “I know I haven’t been the nicest to you lately. But my, um, well, my due date is, like, less than two weeks. Maximum. I cannot hold this baby in forever. I am frickin’ _huge_.”

“Trust me, Lana, _everyone_ has noticed.”

She frowned. “Thanks.” Dick.

“You are so welcome.” He slid out of her grasp, collecting a glass of expensive brandy. He sat down on an ornate chair, looking up at her, decorated and snide. He looked ridiculous. She made a point to stand, hand on her hip. Her feet were swollen. She felt like a blimp. “I’m not going to let him go, you know.”

“...That was not what I was asking, nor do I care what you do with him. But I am going to need resources to have this baby, and I don’t exactly think I’m going to get them here in _Casa de Mercenaries_.”

“Lana! Come now,” said Cyril, picking up his brandy snifter and swirling the amber liquid pretentiously, “Look at my mansion. Look at all these people who work for me. I could get you the best doctors in the country--”

“What’s left of it, that is.”

“--shut up, the best doctors available. If you’ll admit that I am actually, well…. y’know, pretty awesome at this!”

She snorted. “Is your self-esteem really so fragile that you need _me_ to tell you how awesome you are? Cyril, come on. You’re a dictator. You don’t need my validation.”

“Right!? I don’t! Wow, that actually feels pretty good to admit.” He crossed his legs, looking up at her, as she shifted her weight from foot to foot. She wanted to sit down, but her pride wouldn’t allow her to ask him for a chair. God, Cyril was _such_ an asshole. “But go ahead and validate me anyhow, Lana, I might take pity on you and let you, um, _validate_ my cock.”

She snorted. “Even if you could _literally_ command me to do that, I would rather, I don’t know, drop dead.”

“You get a C for creativity, Lana.”

“And you get a solid D, for biggest dick in the room.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Wait… literal dick or I _am_ a dick?”

“I don’t know, pick one.” She sighed, crossing her arms under her breasts. Ugh, they were huge. They got in the way. Lana eventually gave up and planted her hands on her hips instead. “But, seriously. I hate to say this, Cyril, but I’m going to need your cooperation to get this baby out of me.”

“You mean that _bastard_!” he said, gesturing to her stomach. 

She held herself back, just barely, from grabbing the nearest overpriced vase and smashing it into his smarmy face. What had she ever, ever seen in him anyhow? “Yes. My child is a bastard. And so are you, if you expect me to just… squat down and grunt my kid out in a bush or whatever. You... racist.”

He grimaced, clearly disturbed by the imagery she’d so vividly provided for him. He took another sip of his brandy, as Lana grew increasingly impatient with his lack of response. He was so fucking selfish, so up his own ass. Still… there had to be a part of him that cared. A part of him that acknowledged the history they had.

“Cyril. Look. I’m _sorry_ if I hurt you,” she murmured, not exactly meaning it, “Seriously. But I--”

“Why didn’t you ask me to get you pregnant? We were together around when you conceived. I figured that much out,” he asked, nervously. Lana’s face softened, despite herself, and she stepped cautiously forward, closer to him. “I would make a good dad. And... you know that I would’ve wanted to, Lana.”

“Cyril…” she started, seriously considering what she wanted to say to him. A part of her knew that she had to be honest, but she couldn’t lie, there was a tiny, evil part of her that wanted to just _destroy_ his ego. Well, she could always do both. That was always an option. 

She nodded towards the windows, and he reluctantly rose, following her out the balcony doors. It was warm outside, pleasant, the gardens below them were exquisite and finely tuned. Fit for a king. If it wasn’t for the totalitarian government, Lana would’ve totally considered it a bomb ass place to be. Except for that whole mortar strikes and angry, militant rebels thing.

Lana planted her hands on the banister, and took a deep breath. The stars were out. It was a nice time to break his heart into tiny pieces, again. “When I first decided I wanted to get pregnant, I was going to make you the father, Cyril.”

His glass slid out of his hands, shattering, Cyril stepping back as the amber liquid crawled out to the toes of his very expensive shoes. “ _What!? Lana!_ ”

“Yeah. I even tossed around the idea of marrying you,” she said, breathlessly, conveniently forgetting to add that it was mostly out of desperation, “Until you followed me to the Tuntmore and totally proved to me, _again_ , that you were an insecure shithead who didn’t have a shred of trust or respect for me in his shitty, shitty bones.”

Cyril was shaking a bit, clearly upset, sad even. Lana felt a tiny bit bad. He wasn’t a complete monster. “But… but Lana, if you had just told me that you were thinking about it, I--”

“Cyril, both times we freaking dated, you didn’t trust me, even when I didn’t give you a reason to think otherwise.”

“It was that _dickhead_ Archer, okay! It was him I couldn’t trust,” he spat, crushing glass under his heel. “And Lana, I know how he gets to you. _Everyone_ knows, how you _let him_ get to you.”

She smiled, tightly, turning to face him, one hand lingering on the guard rail, other one cupped protectively over her belly. Cyril was breathing heavily, face red, glasses sliding down his nose. Before, she might have found that endearing. He was cute when he was all worked up.

“You’re probably right about that. Actually, like, definitely right. He does get to me. And I _hate_ it. But Cyril, he _gets_ me. In a way I don’t think you do or ever really did.”

“If he _gets_ you so much, why don’t you just, I don’t know, marry him! Have his Goddamn _FAS_ babies! And then run off together so you can spend the rest of your miserable life hating your own fucking _guts_ as he cheats on you left and right, further annihilating your already, frankly, _shit_ level of self-respect until his liver, actually, literally _explodes_!”

“Y’know…” She shut her mouth, tears rising in her eyes, forcing herself to rapidly blink them away. Cyril frowned, he’d overstepped the line, reached into his pocket for a crumpled tissue, the old fart. He always carried them around, like some senile old grandpa. She accepted them, despite herself, wiping her eyes.

“...You’re in love with him. Aren’t you.”

She didn’t respond, tears running down her cheeks, lip quivering. Goddamnit. He wasn’t supposed to figure that out.

“Cheesey Petes, Lana...” he muttered, turning away, hand rubbing over his mouth. “Ugh, I don’t fricking deserve this.”

“Well, trust fund babies don’t deserve their millions, and starving orphans don’t deserve dead parents, Cyril. Life isn’t fair. It is what it fucking is, and this is me, Lana Kane, deciding for once in my _miserable life_ to just fucking _go with it._ ” She noisily blew her nose with his tissue, and threw it at the back of his head. He swiped it away with his hand, grimacing as he realized just what it was. “You really think I _want_ to feel this way? Like I haven’t been fighting for the last _five years_ to get rid of this?” Cyril turned to her, face like a kicked puppy. She only felt a teensy bit evil. But it was also kind of satisfying.

She wiped away the rest of her tears with the back of her arm, standing tall and proud, pregnant belly front and center. Cyril steeled himself, arms behind his back. At a stalemate. 

“...Ugh. Fine. _If_ I remember, I’ll make arrangements for your, um, delivery.”

“Thank you,” she said, with as little emotion as possible. “Can I go?”

“Yeah, get out. Whatever, Lana.”

Pride clearly wounded, he turned to face the night sky, Lana beginning to make her less than graceful exit. “Wait.” She paused. “Go get Juliana from the dungeons. I need her. For reasons.” 

“ _...Ugh._ Fine.”

She padded through the hallways, down beyond the guards, slowing her walk as she spotted the chefs busy in the kitchen. Well… she was going to the dungeon anyway, where a certain someone would probably be starving. 

“...What are you doing to yourself, girl. Get your shit together,” she muttered, going inside despite her better judgment. Did she even _have_ that anymore? Who the fuck knew.

\---

“ _If you want Archer so damn bad, you can go get him yourse--_ ”

The car couldn’t speed fast enough, dust blowing up from the tires. There wasn’t enough time, all the stress finally coming to a head, the missile, Lana’s belly pressed tight against the steering wheel as her back cramped, teary, hardened eyes focused on the road.

Archer was an idiot. A complete _fucking idiot_ and the father of her child, the person she needed in her life. She hadn’t even stopped to think about bringing Ray or Pam as backup, brain not exactly firing on all cylinders, and _Jesus_ her back hurt, what the hell was up with that? God, she just had to _get there_. Get to him. Fix this. She wasn’t even sure she could.

Thankfully, the airport was mostly deserted, which was a good thing since she wasn’t all that capable of stealth in her current condition. She felt nauseous, pain traveling to the front of her abdomen now, as she cautiously stepped through the long, narrow hallways, peering around the corners before advancing.

It wasn’t until she felt the press of a muzzle against the back of her head that she concluded pregnant stealth wasn’t exactly the best tactical insertion method (phrasing).

“Well, shit.” She flicked her eyes left and right, concluding by the shadows cast that there were only two of them. It was worth a shot.

She slammed her elbow back into the first guy’s nose, spinning around to grind her heel into his toe. He yelped, teetering backward, she’d gained the advantage. The other guy got a grasp on her TEC-9, wrenching it out of her hand, as she slapped her first assailant’s gun to the floor. He seized her by the throat, throwing her up against the wall, Lana choking as her hands flew up to grab his wrist. 

“ _¿Quién te ha enviado!_ ” 

“No one sent me! I sent my damn _self_ ,” she croaked, slapping at his hands. “Let me go, shitass!” 

He looked down at her decidedly pregnant belly, releasing his hold with some reluctance. She coughed and sputtered, quickly finding her hands tied, captive, weapons removed from her person. God, she’d failed. Miserably. At least she’d tried, and now she was going to _die_ , executed after the worst infiltration of her waking life. Sorry baby…

Speaking of.

The man who’d tied her hands looked down, lip curling with disgust as he stepped back. “Oh my God, Carlos! She pissed herself! _Mira lo que hiciste_!” 

“Gah!” The other man flew back. “This is possibly the second time in my life I have regretted physically assaulting a fat lady. Maybe third.”

Lana’s eyes flew open as she realized just exactly what that warm, wet feeling running down her thighs was. It couldn’t be, it was way too early, and she was being taken captive. Oh no. Oh God, oh no. This couldn’t happen right now. It wasn’t _fair_.

“You shitheads, I am not _fat_ ,” she yelled, “I am _pregnant_. My fucking water just broke!”

Her mouth snapped shut with a yelp, coming to the realization that yes, this was actually happening, both of her beleaguered assailants staring at her helplessly. 

“Ohmygod. My water just broke. Am I… does this…” Pain streaked up her pelvis, under her gut. Abijean wanted _out_. “I’m going into labor!? _Now!? Seriously!?_ ”

Things just couldn’t get any fucking worse. Could they? Probably. Definitely.

Shit.

Shit, shit, _shit_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY, we're in the final streak here. I have one more chapter coming out after this, and then a sequel that veers straight into shameless wish fulfillment territory after the fact. Hope you've enjoyed the ride as much as I have. With the last of the fic being released, I will also be releasing a 3AM soundtrack, 'Late Night Fuck Mix'. Watch for that.
> 
> Also, I don't know Spanish at all, so if any of that terrible Google translate shit is flat out wrong, let me know in the comments and I can fix it. 
> 
> As always, you can catch me over at highandholy.tumblr.com if you want to prompt me or send me sexy messages.


	8. Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lana deals with the consequences of her actions. Archer doesn't.
> 
> Warnings, for coked up Pam, implied sexual assault and far too much fluff and angst.

Lana was still a bit drunk, if she was going to be honest with herself (which she often wasn’t), having been carried into a plane by Pam while half euphoric, half in agony, baby swaddled and clutched in her arms. Malory, surprising everyone, had helped her deliver and cut the cord, Pam far too exuberant about having her hands up inside her to focus. She’d made a quip about fisting, Malory’s strong, bloodied palm catching her sharply in the back of the head, and had quickly shut her big mouth at the sight of Lana’s awestruck face, fixed on her naked, screaming child as she was placed in her arms for the first time.

Malory helped her get settled in the private cabin, propping her up with pillows as she awkwardly settled down, thus far unnamed kid on her lap. Her whole body hurt, and she wasn’t able to fully sit up straight, puffy and feeling emptied out, bleeding uncomfortably between her legs. Maxi pads were the literal worst. Especially two of them at the same time. Ugh. Thank God she hadn’t ripped (badly, anyhow). All things considered, it had been a pretty smooth labour, lack of real hospital notwithstanding.

“There you are, dear,” said the older woman, smiling, for once, without a hint of her usual animosity. “All settled. Did you need anything else? Extra blankets? A pillow? Some more bourbon?”

“Thanks, Malory, I’m fine.” She paused, swallowed thickly. She was so not fine. “And also still freaking drunk. Pretty sure kiddo’s already getting, like, an 80-proof breastmilk cocktail. So not good for a newborn.”

“...Worked for me.”

Malory lowered herself into the chair next to Lana, picked her drink up from the table. The seatbelt light flicked off, the plane more or less level now as they made their way back to US soil. That had to be bad for a brand new baby’s ears, Lana recognized, but nursing on the way up had helped. 

Malory swirled the ice, staring down at the sleeping child in Lana’s arms. “So… are you going to tell him, then?”

“Tell who what?” Lana pushed the blanket off of her daughter’s face, her skin buttery soft and warm. Her head was a little egg shaped, still. Alien kid. There was a baby. Her baby. It wasn’t quite real to her yet, that she was now in charge of a tiny person.

She scoffed. “Sterling, of course. My son may be an idiot, but he’s going to figure it out sooner or later. The Archer genes are quite strong, if I might say so, myself.”

Lana’s eyes widened, as her brain struggled to organize her thoughts. “Oh… right. That.” She sighed, as the baby pursed her lips, then opened her eyes, staring blearily at the world around her. Her heart melted every time. She was already so in love. “I… guess I kinda don’t know what to say to him.”

“Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it?” Malory cleared her throat. “Just say to him, ‘Sterling, I have produced you a perfectly healthy baby girl, now quit wasting the precious life your selfless--”

“Ha!”

“--shut up, Mother gave you on whoring and liquor, and raise your child.’ Only how you’d say it, you know, louder, and with more… ebonics.”

“Ebonics, huh.”

“Oh, I don’t know… you always make this a race thing!”

“Yeah, that’s all on me.” She sighed. “I guess I should tell him, though… yeah. That is a thing. I should do.” The baby shifted, Lana propping her further up into the crease of her elbow. Malory polished off her glass, then gestured to Lana, who cautiously offered her daughter over. Uncharacteristically, she held her granddaughter tenderly, supporting her head with capable arms, and it, frankly, surprised Lana that Malory had a loving bone in her body. She kind of figured they’d gone hollow with age, or osteoporosis, or whatever.

The baby started to stir again, perhaps recognizing she’d been transferred to someone new. Malory cooed down at her, rocking her slightly. “She looks like him, you know.”

“And also me.”

“But more him!”

Lana didn’t say anything, it wasn’t worth it, watching Malory handle her daughter. It was still surreal to her that now, she was related to Malory by blood, in a way. She could never escape now. Somehow, it didn’t seem all that appealing, anymore, that maybe this could work.

“I do hope she gets his good hair, though.” 

Well… a little appealing.

“I am not going to dignify that with a response.”

“You just did.”

Lana glared. And then, she relaxed a little, let Malory worry about the baby, and mulled over her options. Yes, she had to tell him, the only problem was how, exactly. No matter what she did, he was going to freak out in some capacity. What was important was whether or not he accepted it, wanted to actually parent, or ran away and rejected all responsibility, drowning his sorrows in booze and hooker… juice. Ew. She sincerely hoped he picked the former.

All those months ago, though… He’d said that he wanted to run off and get married, and she’d mercilessly cut him down. Still, she knew it was his need to escape his problems that had planted that idea in him, rather than anything firmly grounded in reality. Though, he did care. He’d been trying, lately, so… well, she swallowed her pride and made her decision. 

She did care about him, after all. He deserved to know that too, maybe. If she had the nerve to tell him. Thank Jesus for hormones and liquor.

She was pulled out of her revelry as the baby started to squawk. “Oh, quiet, you. Here, Lana, take her, I don’t do crying.” Malory hastily placed her into Lana’s open arms. “I assume she’s hungry. I’ll let you two be, for now, while you allow her to further desecrate your body, I suppose.”

“You mean while I nurse my infant child. Providing sustenance and nourishment to her. Your granddaughter.”

“Yes, well.” Malory sniffed, standing as she began to take her leave. “Let me know if ever you change your mind about that wet nurse.”

“I’m actually good without letting my kid suck on stranger titties, thanks,” Lana replied, beginning to undo her dress. She was also good without the mental image of a four year old Archer with a wet nurse. Blegh. There was no possible way to ever eradicate that from her mind.

“You say that now, but give it a few months of cracked nipples, the joy of teething and the slow decline of your already deflating--”

“Hey--”

“--bosom and you’ll be _praising_ me for the mere suggestion.”

“Yeah, remind me to praise you, or whatever, later, after never, ever taking your advice and subsequently manifesting an emotionally healthy relationship with my daughter.” 

Malory turned at the door, pointing one bony finger at her, opening her mouth to fire back a heated, snarky response. Instead, she pointed, eyebrows drawing downward. “You absolute shrew.”

“Learned from the best.”

“Well of course, you did, dear. Grandmother Archer knows best!” She smirked. “I’ll fetch Sterling in a moment, then. Give you a few minutes to collect yourself.”

“Yeah… please do. Thanks, Malory.”

“Not at all, Lana.”

Malory smiled, tightly, closing the door behind her. Lana looked down at the baby as she pushed open the front of her dress, her daughter easily latching on. It was a weird feeling. 

“So… what do I name you, kid.” 

The baby didn’t respond, predictably. It was, in fact, a baby.

“Yeah, I agree.” Lana paused, smiling as she relaxed into the chair. “Nothing with ‘Malory’ in it. But I think I have some ideas...”

\---

“Sterling Archer, I’d like you to meet your daughter. Abbiejean.”

He stared at the infant in her arms, eyes wide with shock, and Lana felt for a moment that she was going to drop dead. It was only slightly terrifying, not knowing how he would react, if he was going to fully flip his shit on her or not. It wasn’t like he could be completely enraged at her complete withholding of the truth, given the fact that he was, well, _him_.

Her face heated the longer the silence stretched on, and he looked at the floor, glass tight in his hand as he was clearly struggling. To be fair, she’d dropped a bomb on him, utterly shattered his reality with a living embodiment of his total lack of responsibility. A baby was a lot to dump on someone. 

Lana hated herself for wanting him to be overjoyed, to leap at the opportunity. She had to calm herself down. It wasn’t realistic, getting her expectations that high would only lead to total disappointment when he gave up on himself, as usual. But it would just be so… nice.

As she sat there while he continued to glare the floor into submission, her brain started to tailspin into just how many ways this could entirely backfire. It was a bad idea, she couldn’t do this by herself, she had lied to him and oh God--

“Can I hold her?”

“You-- what?”

“Jesus, idiot. Let me hold the daughter who is _apparently_ mine.” His face softened. “I wanna... look at her.”

“Oh, uh, yeah, of course,” she stammered. 

She couldn’t look him in the eyes as he put his drink on the floor, extended his hands to take AJ from her. “Watch her head--”

“I know how to hold a frickin’ baby.”

“I know, I know, just-- I’ll shut up now.” She pulled her shirt closed, not that it mattered, but she couldn’t help but feel vulnerable. 

Her chest felt tight as Archer nestled her (their) baby into the crook of his elbow, peeling back the blanket to get a better look at her face. His expression was mostly blank, eyes searching, trying to understand exactly what this meant, exactly. She couldn’t help but stare at him, devouring the image before her eyes if it happened to go away forever. She still didn’t know what he was going to do.

“Wow, she’s like, tiny. Super tiny. Or is she tiny, for a newborn? I don’t actually know.” 

“I’m not sure.” Lana inhaled, noisily. She hadn’t even realized she was holding her breath. “I mean, it isn’t like we could weigh her at the baby scale we didn’t have, after I gave birth on a computer desk in an airport.”

“In a war zone.”

“Yes, also in a war zone.”

Lana wrung her hands together, retreated further back into the chair, as he unswaddled AJ just a little, just to see her hands, confirm there were indeed ten tiny fingers on both. She wrapped them around his finger, reflexively, and a slow smile started to pull across his face. He flicked his eyes up to Lana, then back down to AJ. “Lana, look! She grabbed me!”

“I’m looking. I can see.” Despite herself, she started to smile.

“Do you think she recognizes me?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure all of New York, people in France and maybe Japan, and also distant undiscovered alien life forms in outer space can hear you constantly screaming at me, so maybe she recognizes your voice, yeah.”

“No, idiot, I meant, like, as her dad.” 

Oh, God. Lana wanted to throw up or cry, maybe both at the same time. Instead, she coughed. “Oh. Right.”

“God, Lana, it’s almost like you didn’t impregnate yourself with my like, stolen _sperm-sicle_ or whatever, to intentionally have my freakin’ kid.” He laughed, but it was bitter, she could hear it, but she couldn’t focus on anything but how he looked holding her-- their baby. 

“It wasn’t frozen when I used it, dumbass.”

“So, what, I’m curious, did you just like… do the turkey baster thing? Did you masturbate with it? Like, in you? Gross, why am I like weirdly turned on by that.”

“Uh--”

“--or, like, upside down on a chair and… gravity? Or how did that work. Actually, I don’t want to know. Actually, I do. Actually, shut up, never mind, don’t ruin the moment, Lana, _Jesus_.” 

Abbiejean closed her eyes, snuggled up into the warmth of his chest. Archer turned his attention back to Lana, who shrunk under his gaze. “And also why you didn’t just… I don’t know, _ask_ me. It’s pretty shitty of you to have my kid without fucking telling me, Lana.”

Her heart started hammering under her ribs. “It’s not like I didn’t want to, I just-- I didn’t know how, and I--”

“Yeah, well.” He frowned, sharply, jostled AJ in his arms as he offered her back to Lana. She snapped her up hastily, protectively pulling the blanket tighter around her infant’s head. “Kinda sucks to find out about this now, Lana, given I don’t have a Goddamn say in it.”

“I guess I figured you would… you know, say no. And I don’t know, I-- I was… embarrassed.” Lana looked away. “And also because I know you didn’t want to be a fa--”

“It’s not like I never wanted to, uh… _baby_. This is actually kind of awesome. It just--”

“I wanted--”

They both went quiet. AJ snuffled quietly under the blankets, dead to the world in sweet, newborn slumber.

Archer ran a hand through his messy, overgrown hair, slumping back in the chair. Without a drink to occupy himself, he seemed thrown off, like he couldn’t figure out what to do with his hands, couldn’t feign indifference. Lana recognized this part of him-- he’d always been scared to be vulnerable. It had irritated her to no end while they were dating, regardless of the fact that she was just as scared of it as he was. Maybe it was better this way. She swallowed her pride.

“She has your eyes, Lana. I mean, she looks like you.”

Lana looked up, took in his weary expression, the general slouch of his shoulders. Archer sighed, leaned forward on his knees to look at the baby again. She pretended not to notice the way his eyes traced the slope of her breasts, swollen and almost uncomfortable, and God, she still had all that baby weight to lose. 

“I guess we made a cute kid, huh.” 

“Well, I mean, once she stops looking like Mr. Potato Head’s evil cousin, uh. Tiny... Potato Head. Wait, no, she’s gotta be royalty. Princess Potato Head? Countessa? Grand Duchess.”

“Yeah, ‘cause it’s not like she was forcibly pushed through my cervix or anything.”

“Wait-- _Oba_ Potato Head. I guess since I have a like, part… black kid, I’m going to have to get in touch with African shit.”

“Do you even _hear_ yourself?”

“Actually no, my ears are ringing pretty bad right now. I’m not a huge fan of planes, it’s just like... constant popping noises. Kinda sucks. Wait, do you have gum?”

“What? No. Shut up.”

He chuckled, wiped his hand over his mouth. Slowly, he looked at her, Lana forcing herself to hold eye contact, there was fear there. “So, also, what you were saying earlier, about you know--”

“I don’t know, actually.”

“Come on, Lana. The whole thing where you said you still… love me. Or whatever.”

His voice cracked, and Lana didn’t know what to say for a moment. Oh, yeah, she’d said that out loud, to him, for real. It was out there now, and it scared her, he could totally hold it against her. Still…

“I gue-- yeah, I do.” 

“You love me.”

“Yes.” She bit the inside of her cheek.

“So… does that mean--”

“I don’t know, Archer. I guess it depends on a lot of things.”

“Things like…”

“I can’t--” She paused, closing her eyes, trying to recollect herself. “I need you to stop drinking. Or cut back. Or something. I can’t trust you with my baby if you’re shitfaced.”

“Oh come on, Lana. When do I ever get ‘shitfaced’?”

“Like almost every hour, of every day, you are drunk or drinking,” she shot back, “You have to know you have a problem. And I would literally slit my wrists if something happened to her because I trusted you and she got hurt because you were wasted.”

He cringed like she’d physically struck him, didn’t recover as quickly as he usually did. “You seriously think I would let something like that happen?”

“Look, it’s not like I don’t think you wouldn’t--”

“No, Lana, I get it. Whatever.” He leaned down, picked his emptied glass up with the tips of his fingers, raising to his full height. She looked up at him, small and sad, as he turned his back to her.

“Archer… you don’t have to… leave. We can talk about this, I--”

“Okay well, if you don’t mind, this is a shit-ton of _shit_ to drop on a guy, who is obviously too _drunk_ and _incompetent_ to handle my-- _your_ frickin’ kid.” He choked, knuckles white around the tumbler. “Excuse me, Lana, I have to go get just _fucking shitfaced_ , because apparently that’s all I’m good at.”

“Archer, wait, I--”

She watched him shoulder his way out the door, closing it a little too gently behind him. Heard Cyril’s, ‘Hey!’ as he’d passed through, then... nothing. 

Lana’s chin dipped to her chest, tears forming behind her eyes. “Goddamnit.” 

She knew that maybe he just needed time. He’d been excited about the idea of parenting, had obviously bonded with AJ in such a short time… she’d seen the look in his eyes, he cared, he’d wanted to be… well, a family. Part of something.

It was what Lana wanted, down to her very core, though she often refused to admit it, but she had to have standards, now. It wasn’t just her, anymore. She couldn’t let him parent AJ the way he was now, but oh God, she wanted it, so badly.

He just had to fucking try. Work for her, for AJ, when he was ready. If he was ever ready.

\---

It wasn’t all that surprising when he went missing overnight, after a few days back at the mansion. Malory sniffed at his cleared out room, tipped her drink back, dark circles under her eyes. “Well, you can’t be surprised, dear, you knew it was a bad idea. Think of the strain you’re putting on poor Sterling.”

Lana didn’t say anything, tightlipped, Abbiejean clutched in her arms. She couldn’t help the crushing feeling of disappointment. She’d gotten her hopes up too high. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Between trips to the doctor, for AJ, forcing herself to eat (the healthiest, lowest calorie things she could find in Cheryl’s weird ass mansion), joining Malory in discussions with the CIA, and endless diapers and nursing and crying, Lana spent most of her time in bed. Part of her supposed it could be postpartum depression, but really, she was maybe a little heartbroken, if she admitted it to herself. Which she often didn’t. 

Pam was surprisingly helpful, waking up at night to the screams when Lana was too exhausted, walking around in circles, singing to AJ in her slightly off-key, nasal tone. She still asked too many questions, stinging accusations that were a little too close to the chest. It didn’t take very long for everyone to figure out exactly why Archer had entirely fucked off, and nobody was really that surprised.

“Oh come on, girl,” Ray had said, eyes very intentionally avoiding her chest as Lana nursed on the sofa next to him. He almost gagged, it was funny, and she made a point to specifically breastfeed around him, “I’m pretty sure I figured it out right as soon as you told us you were preggo. I, for one, as your best friend, always knew you wanted to pop out his future munchkin.”

“Am I really that predictable? Ugh.”

“Duh. Literally everyone can tell how hot y’all are for him. As much as your stubborn ass pretends not to be.”

“I guess so.” She looked down at the floor, felt like she was sinking into the couch. “Ray, why am I such an idiot.”

“Didn’t pay attention in high school?”

“No--”

“Wait, I got it-- Krieger put a microchip in your brain while you weren’t looking to turn you stupid. Or Clone Krieger. I still ain’t really sure on that one.”

“Ha ha, very funny.”

“Just trying to cheer you up, Lana. Don’t like seeing you so upset.” He gingerly reached over and patted her knee, eyes very pointedly looking past her. “Besides, you’re a strong, uh, black-ish woman who don’t need no man. You got this baby thing all by yourself. And we’ll all help out! Sometimes. Just don’t expect me to change any diapers, because I don’t do--”

“I told him I loved him, Ray.” 

“Oh, honey…”

“Yyyyyeah.”

“Well.” Ray sat back, crossed his ankle over his knee. The large, ornate clock behind him ticked onward, someone was shuffling around in a room adjacent to them. Lana felt empty, straining to focus on what he had to say. His voice softened. “You know he loves you. He’s told you as much. I just think… hm, it’s like he doesn’t know _how_ to love somebody. You bet your ass you can blame Malory for that. I know I do, she’s like, actually evil.”

It was okay while he was the one with the feelings out there. But returned, it was like he had no idea what to do with it acknowledged like that. Probably the fear of trying. Maybe he was afraid of being happy.

Lana sighed, AJ squirming against her, as she adjusted her top to cover herself, lifting the baby onto her shoulder, patting her back. She prayed for no puke. She was so tired of vomit all over her clothes. Why did she have a baby again?

“You know he’ll come back, right? After he’s done with his like.. what is it now, third? Fourth existential crisis?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure I want him to. I don’t want him to do that thing, where he half-asses at trying it and expects it all to work out for him with zero effort. Not with Abbiejean. She... deserves better than that.”

“She just spit up on your cashmere.”

“Of course she did.” 

Ray handed her the receiving blanket, let her dab off the vomit on her shoulder with one hand, frowning the entire time. For a guy who regularly murdered people and was covered in all sorts of bodily fluids, he sure was squeamish around babies and their various goop. Lana cracked a smile, for the first time in awhile.

“Aw, there she is. See, Lana, it’s all gonna be okay. Uncle Ray is here to help.”

“Pam! Pam?” Cheryl’s heels clicked nearby, and she poked her head in the doorway. “Have you guys seen Pam? I left her in the bathroom tied to the toilet to like, you know, _detox_ and went to glue up, and she went all MH370 on me.”

Cyril flew past a few moments later, Pam screaming after him, naked, sweat pouring down her face.

“Oh. Okay. Guess that answers my question.”

There was a crash further down the hallway, followed by Cyril yelling and the distinct sound of fist on flesh. Cheryl beamed with barely contained excitement.

Ray raised an eyebrow. “You… gonna go help him?”

Cheryl snorted. “No.”

“How am I supposed to raise a baby in this environment?”

Ray thought for a moment. “...Poorly.”

Despite herself, Lana chuckled. “Right? God, what am I doing. I’m sorry, kid, I promise I’ll pay for your therapy.”

AJ gurgled, wiggled in Lana’s arms. It was all going to be okay. Sort of. Mostly. She’d figure it out, anyway, she was a fucking super spy. She could do this.

“No, no, no, Pam, put me _down_! I’m not giving you any Goddamn cocaine! _Carol!_ ” 

“Yeah! Give him the _Shining Wizard_! Finish him!”

More banging. A thump. Cyril groaned.

“Fatality!” Cheryl took off down the hall, shrieking with glee. Yeah, she was way too into that. Lana chose not to pay attention, smiling down at her baby.

Ray rose to his feet. “Guess I better go run interference. You feeling better, hon?”

“...Not really. I’ll be okay, eventually, though.”

“I know you will.” He patted her shoulder as he walked by, cringing back at the wetness he found there, before heading out the door. His footfalls quickened as he rounded the corner. 

“Pam, put Cyril’s pants _back on_ , he ain’t hiding coke in his taint, you shit!”

Lana let out a heavy sigh. At the very least, she wasn’t alone in her misery. Was it misery? She wasn’t even sure anymore. More like a long, slow, descent into madness. She used to think her coworkers were insane, but it wasn’t like she didn’t fit right in with them. God, maybe she was even crazier. She was still there, after all.

Still… her eyes ventured over to the cellphone she’d haphazardly thrown on a cushion, still distinctly lacking any type of voicemail or text message. He wasn’t going to call, wasn’t going to explain. She didn’t expect it. And somehow, it didn’t seem as bad now. Ray was right -- he was going to return, come crawling back to her like he usually did, pretending nothing happened. She’d be ready this time. Stronger. Lana wasn’t alone anymore. 

“ _Pam!_ God-freaking-- ahholyshitfuck!”

Ceramic shattered down the hall, Cheryl screeching followed by Pam’s heinous laughter. Lana sighed, scooped a wiggling AJ into the crook of her elbow, and stood up. 

These were her people. She was a mother. She could do this.

Lana turned the corner, took a deep breath. “ _Pam!_ Oh, come on, leave Cyril and Ray alone!”

She could do this.

\---

“Ugh. I can’t do this.”

He flipped his phone shut, threw it on the bartop. Elbows on the counter, head in his hands, drink sweating condensation untouched before him. The guy next to him at the bar top eyed him curiously.

A plane ticket with a fake name and a location he’d picked while half-gone was heavy in his jacket pocket. Archer looked up at the departures board. He was going to be late for his flight if he didn’t leave soon.

Still… he could stay. It would make Lana happy. And his kid would have a father. Probably wouldn’t turn out half as fucked up as him.

His kid. God.

He killed his drink in one go, snatched his phone and stepped off the barstool. He was so not ready to be a father, a responsibility Lana had thrown on his shoulders without a word to him. It wasn’t even like she hadn’t been pregnant for nine fucking months, keeping it from him, while they’d spent almost every waking hour together. Flat out lying to him. After she’d shut him down when he’d offered her a way out. 

Even just thinking about it… he shook his head, started off to the departure gate.

Archer slowed down a little as he neared, the intercom announcing his plane was boarding. Still… he could turn around. He flipped his phone open, thought about calling Lana again. She’d probably never forgive him for leaving in the first place, he’d never hear the end of it. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to talk to her, but what the fuck would he even say? She probably hated him.

He sighed, shut his phone off, shoved it into his pocket. Fuck it. He deserved a few weeks to himself. He’d deal with it when he got back. Lana would be waiting for him, pissed, with an ‘I told you so’ on her lips, as usual.

And a kid, _their_ kid. Not so usual.

Archer pulled out his ticket, took a deep breath, got in line, and only thought about turning around three or four more times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took a million years for me to put out, and that it doesn't end as happily as we would've hoped. But I hope you enjoy the stunning conclusion of 3AM. I'll have more fic soon-- likely a long-ass one-shot sequel to this.
> 
> I also went with the more recently confirmed canon-spelling of 'Abbiejean'. I'll change it if it gets confirmed otherwise... Abijean sounds better. Whatever.
> 
> Anyhow, thanks for putting up with me and my endless procrastination. As always, you can find me at highandholy.tumblr.com, where I discuss meta, take drabble requests, and generally make an asshole of myself and post K-pop gifs.
> 
> Go on, review, kudos, sing my praises. Just kidding. 
> 
> (But actually, I like reviews and kudos.)

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism is highly encouraged, dick pics and nudes are welcome as always.


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